


Good as Gold

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alpha Keith (Voltron), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Sex, Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Comfort, Denial of Feelings, Falling In Love, Getting Together, Hair Brushing, Hair Washing, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Oblivious Keith (Voltron), Omega Shiro (Voltron), Platonic Cuddling, Praise Kink, Riding, Romance, Scenting, Top Keith (Voltron), Topping from the Bottom, Touch-Starved Keith (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:40:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: Over the years Keith gets used to being alone. But during one particularly bad rut, and after days of chasing something that doesn’t exist—utterly exhausted and on the brink of desperation—he caves and stumbles to his laptop. He flips it open and stares at the page that’s been open for months—ATLAS: Heat Sharing and Non-Sexual Intimacy Partners Inc.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 142
Kudos: 629





	Good as Gold

**Author's Note:**

> If this looks familiar it was originally a fic thread on twitter. The thread clocked in around 9K and this is nearly 24K (with no added scenes!) so it was very heavily edited and expanded. Whether you've seen this story before or are reading it for the first time i hope you enjoy it. <3
> 
> All my love to whiskyandwildflowers for an incredible beta on this one.

Over the years Keith gets used to being alone. 

He’s used to pushing down the longing when he watches people touch casually while walking down the sidewalk or shopping together for groceries. He’s used to ignoring the ache in his chest and the itch beneath his skin—the part of him that longs for human touch. 

Keith gets really good at ignoring what he doesn’t have—has _never_ had. At least, usually.

Usually though, Keith’s not a few days out from a rut.

On an logical level Keith knows it’s just a bunch of stupid hormones and his body betraying him as he tosses and turns in his bed wanting to crawl out of his skin. But the closer he gets to his rut the more desperate he begins to feel, unable to care about why he wants what he wants. 

His sleep is broken, never getting more than an hour at a time, and he wakes up morning after morning sticky and unsatisfied from dreams that give him sexual release, but none emotionally. He spends his waking hours leading up to his rut longing to feel the drag of skin against skin, to have the solid weight of someone else’s body against his own. This close to his rut the images that flash through his mind are filthy—his fingers sinking into another before he follows with his dick. But even in a haze of arousal Keith knows it’s so much more than sex.

Like clockwork his rut comes the same as it always does, overwhelming and exhausting. He tires himself out fucking his hand and his rut aid, falling into bed night after night exhausted but unable to sleep. His bed reeks of sex, but lacks the scent of an omega and leaves him more desperate than if he hadn’t come at all. After days of chasing something that doesn’t exist—utterly exhausted and on the brink of desperation—he caves and stumbles to his laptop. He flips it open and stares at the page that’s been open for months— _ATLAS: Heat Sharing and Non-Sexual Intimacy Partners Inc._

His eyes trail over the words he’s read a dozen times: _Let ATLAS shoulder the burden of finding a mate in the twenty-first century. Nearing your first heat or rut and need an experienced Alpha or Omega to guide you through it? Fresh off a break up with your mate and in need of a last minute heat or rut partner? Or maybe the increasing furor of our fast paced society has left you burnt out and touch starved. Whatever your needs may be, our trained team of Alphas, Omegas, and Betas are here for you. Simply choose your desired level of intimacy, take our A/B/O association certified personality test to help us best identify your needs, then let our highly trained staff match you. With a 99% success rate and over one million happy matches, your happiness is one click away._

Keith’s hand stills on the mouse pad, the tiny cursor hovering over the sign up link. It sounds like the answer to all of his problems—touch without commitment—yet something in him hesitates. The defiant part of Keith that’s spent a lifetime refusing to need anyone, especially a mate, rails against the idea of reaching out like this—his brain doing everything it can to rebel against what his body so desperately wants. His ability to resist weakens as the rut claws its way up his back, twisting around his spine as every inch of his body longs to touch and be touched.

It’s just the rut, he tells himself. It’s just the hormones. 

He digs his nails into the flesh of his thighs leaving angry red crescent moons in the pale skin. He hates that his body wants this, hates how much he _needs_ this.

Another wave of desire rolls through Keith’s body and he inhales sharply through his nose—the desire inside of him building and building until it crests. When he closes his eyes, breathless and aroused and aching, it’s not the sight of some faceless naked Omega writhing beneath him that has him trembling but an Omega content and smiling as he _cuddles_ them.

Keith’s hesitation breaks, and he sits at the computer just long enough to sign up for a platonic intimacy mate before stumbling to his bed and rutting into his mattress. When he comes it's on a broken sob.

He passes out face down in his pillow, body spent but heart empty.

****

*******

Keith wakes the next morning with his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his forehead, his legs tangled in the duvet, and the sheets beneath him sticky. He lifts his head enough to read the clock on his bedside table and frowns when he realizes he got less than two hours of broken sleep. It almost makes him wish he hadn’t bothered to sleep at all, since all it did was leave him feeling groggy and like his head is floating.

There’s a pounding in his head and his mouth dry. It takes him a solid minute to realize that the buzzing in his ears isn’t actually all in his head, but the sound of his phone.

His frown deepens as he rolls out of bed and onto the floor, landing on his hands and knees and taking the blanket with him. The fog in Keith’s sleep-addled brain clears only enough for him to remember throwing his phone across the room the night before, though he can’t actually remember why. The buzzing stops, but Keith keeps on looking, too curious and confused about the fact that his phone is ringing in the first place.

The only person who ever calls him is his boss at the auto shop to pick up some extra hours when someone else calls out sick since Keith doesn’t have a mate or a family and is always around to cover his coworkers’ shifts. But he’s still on rut leave for another forty-eight hours, so he can’t imagine who would be calling him. 

It’s the curiosity of it all that gets Keith out of bed, and is the only thing that fuels him as he lays on the floor looking for his renegade phone—eventually finding it beneath the dresser in the corner.

The lock screen shows a missed call and a voicemail from a number Keith doesn’t know. He jabs the play button, switching to speakerphone and setting it on the carpet as he grabs a pair of clean boxers from the laundry basket he was supposed to fold last week. He’s barely got his feet through the holes when an unfamiliar voice blares through the phone. 

_Hello Mr. Kogane, this is Kinkade calling from ATLAS to confirm your appointment with your personally-matched Omega. As per your request, we’ve scheduled the earliest appointment available. Your hand-matched Omega will be at the residence you provided during the confirmation period on Thursday, March first at exactly ten in the morning. As per the terms and conditions, this is a non-refundable appointment. If you have any questions don’t hesitate to call our office at—_

Keith ends the voicemail without listening to the rest of the message. What the fuck had he done? 

The memories of the previous night come back to him in a rush and he practically sprints to his desk, flipping open his laptop and typing in the password. Sure enough, staring him in the face is a confirmation page for a future appointment with a platonic intimacy partner. Keith reads the confirmation three times before the words really sink in. He’d been researching it for months but had never got himself to go through with the application process and matching quiz, or hadn’t until last night.

Keith is tempted to cancel, to revoke any attempt he made for physical contact from another while under hormonal distress. It’s a fleeting desire, and one that he eventually lets die since his appointment is non-refundable and the fee for initial sign up and first appointment fee was nearly half a month’s rent. 

The only positive in the entire situation is that at least in Keith’s emotionally compromised haze, he hadn’t been desperate enough to request a rut partner. 

It could be worse. Or at least that’s what he tells himself as he scrolls down the page. A lump forms in Keith’s throat as he clicks on his profile—no longer blank but apparently filled out last night—and reads his new client profile. 

**Name:** Keith Kogane  
**Age:** 23  
**Sex:** Male  
**Designation:** Alpha  
**Status:** Unmated  
**Preference:** 73% preference for Male, 99% preference for Omega  
**Symptoms:** Insomnia, Aggressive outbursts, Fear of attachment, Hyperactive nervous system including high stress levels and mild depression, Chronic headaches  
**Diagnosis:** Biophysical decline and emotional instability rooted in chronic tactile deprivation  
**Suggested Program:** Immediate intervention with an Omega specializing in tactile defensiveness and touch starvation 

Below his profile is a reminder that all matches are made using the same compatibility program and the specific parameters of the agreement—platonic or otherwise—are entirely dependent on client choice when selecting a program. 

Keith exhales slowly, scrubbing a hand over his face. He can barely believe he was so honest, even in a private forum like this where only some stupid computer system will see his answers for a match with someone he probably won’t even actually be compatible with.

In Keith’s right mind he would never admit to half the things on that list. But that's the crux of the problem Keith faces now. He’s not in his right mind. It’s been so long since he was touched—too long.

Keith needs this even if he doesn’t want to—. even if he’s sure this is going to be a monumental and expensive waste of time. He’s never let anyone in before, the odds of letting a complete stranger touch him just because they were _scientifically found to be compatible_ is highly unlikely.

****

*******

Between cleaning up his disaster of a house post-rut and spending the entirety of Monday working late in a futile attempt to catch up, Keith doesn’t have time to panic about the fact that someone is coming over the next day with the sole intention of _touching_ him.

He wolfs down his dinner, aimlessly flips through channels on the television without really watching anything, and eventually heads to bed a little after midnight. He doesn’t sleep that night, but that’s nothing new.

Unable to think of anything else to do to fill the time, Keith stays in bed until nearly nine, tossing and turning until he can’t take it anymore and hops into the shower—hot as possible, his skin going a little red. By the time he drags himself out of the shower, it occurs to him that he has no idea what you’re supposed to wear to meet someone like this. It takes him nearly twenty minutes of indecision, digging around in the back of his closet staring at items of clothing he didn't even remember owning before the doorbell rings. 

With no time left for Keith’s particular brand of indecision, he yanks on his favorite pair of jeans—so old there are holes in both knees and they’re soft as butter—and a plain red t-shirt from the top of the pile of just washed but not yet folded laundry.

A soft rap of knuckles sounds on the front door, and he hurries out of the bedroom.

“Coming,” he yells, tension rising as he nears the front door.

He can hardly believe this is actually happening. It’s going to be horrible and awkward and they probably won’t be Keith’s type and most of all, _an Omega who knows how much Keith wants to be touched is coming to his house_. The level of vulnerability Keith feels knowing some stranger knows this about him makes him sick to his stomach and he’s just glad he didn’t eat breakfast today.

Forcing himself to calm down enough to answer the door, he unlocks the deadbolt and turns the knob. He’s not expecting much. What he sees on the other side of the door, however, exceeds every possible expectation Keith has ever had.

The man standing on Keith’s doorstep is easily the most attractive person Keith has ever laid eyes upon. He’s tall. So fucking tall. And broad as fuck. Keith’s tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth as his eyes trail over the man’s massive chest, thick biceps, and itty-bitty waist—all shown off perfectly beneath the skintight white thermal he’s wearing.

Body aside, there’s something in his demeanor that makes Keith exhale a shuddering breath as he drags his eyes up to the man’s face. He’s got a jawline that looks like it could cut diamonds and the prettiest lips ever—pale pink and plush—which are turned up in a soft smile. A smile meant for Keith. There’s a jagged scar across the bridge of his nose and his eyes are a soft grey like storm clouds.

It’s hard to believe that the man standing in front of him is real and not some figment of Keith’s sleep-deprived mind. He’s so pretty it almost hurts to look at him. Keith’s got to be hallucinating.

"Hello," the man says, the sweet lilt of his voice washing over Keith as if he’s been bathed in honey. “You must be Keith.”

Keith's not sure if it’s a testament to the agency's supposed near-perfect match rate—which he most definitely thought was an exaggeration before this very moment—or how long it’s been since he let someone touch him, but his first thought is that he'd be anyone this beautiful man wanted him to be so long as it meant he stayed. 

“Yes," Keith manages to answer, pretty fucking proud of himself for acting like a halfway normal human being.

"It’s nice to meet you, Keith. My name is Takashi, but you can call me Shiro," he tells him, eyes softening as he looks at Keith. It makes Keith bite the inside of his cheek to stop from blurting out something embarrassing.

Shiro is here because the agency sent him. Because some stupid computer test said they were compatible and because Keith is paying him to be here and cuddle him. Not because Shiro wants to be. And yet the way Shiro’s standing there looking at Keith makes Keith feel like anything but an obligation. He’s not used to people looking at him—not like this, anyway. Not like they want to keep on looking. 

Keith's just a few days past his rut and still frayed at the edges, which is the only excuse Keith will accept for why his throat feels wobbly just from hearing Shiro's voice.

"Can I, uh, can I come inside?" Shiro asks. 

"Fuck, sorry. Yes. Yes, come in," Keith says stepping back to make room for him.

Shiro is so broad his shoulders graze the doorway as he slips inside, and Keith barely represses a shudder when he thinks about touching him. Or being touched _by_ him. He knows this is meant to be platonic, but fuck, Shiro is his type in every way.

Once Shiro is inside Keith shuts the door, the reality of what’s happening hitting him. There’s an Omega in his house. Not just any Omega but Shiro. Allowing himself a moment of weakness, he closes his eyes for the briefest of seconds and inhales, the pheromones coming from Shiro making Keith weak in the knees. Shiro smells so fucking good it’s hard to breathe.

"How long has it been?" Shiro asks, rubbing his palms over his jeans. Keith only notices then that the fingers of Shiro’s right hand are metal, moving as fluidly as his flesh ones. Curiosity over the prosthetic and scar on his nose rises in Keith, wondering about Shiro’s story.

"Huh?" Keith asks, positive his brain synapses are not firing at full capacity.

"How long has it been,” Shiro repeats. “Since you shared a rut, I mean. If you’re comfortable sharing.”

"A while," Keith answers. He could have declined to answer but something about Shiro makes him want to share his truth. Just, maybe not share everything. He’s too embarrassed to admit he’s never shared a rut with anyone. Ever. "But I'm not close to a rut right now or anything. I just finished mine on Sunday. Alone."

He's not sure why he adds the last bit, feeling pathetic even as he says it. Keith hates pity, hates the way the few doctors and specialists have looked at him when he tells them. Opening himself up to the possibility of seeing it on Shiro’s face is a gamble.

"Oh, that must have been hard," Shiro says, as if he truly means it. The lack of pity or judgement in his voice makes Keith's jaw quiver. 

"It was," Keith agrees softly, surprised at how easily he admits it.

Normally Keith pretends he doesn't mind, pretends that it's not like having his soul ripped out to spend rut after rut unmated with no one to touch and no to focus on—with no Omega to ground him. But normally he’s not this bad—exhausted, every nerve ending split open like a live wire waiting to blow.

“I haven’t been touched in so long,” Keith breathes. He can’t believe he’s saying this out loud, but something about Shiro makes him feel safe in a way Keith has never, ever known. It’s intoxicating and terrifying, and Keith wants to touch Shiro so bad his nerve endings are practically crackling.

"I could help you with that," Shiro offers, his voice so fucking sweet and kind that every one of Keith’s walls comes crashing down with that single sentence. 

Shiro takes a small step forward. When Keith doesn't move away, he slowly inches even closer, approaching Keith as if he’s a wild animal who might run away at any moment. His palms are spread open, arms at his side extended just slightly. It reminds Keith of a nature documentary where he’d watched a guy who worked on a world reserve trying to rescue a lone alpha wolf who’d been part of an illegal fight ring.

Keith certainly feels like a wild animal now—his heart beating against his ribs so hard he can barely think. He understands how that wolf must’ve felt—as desperate for someone to come help him as he was afraid.

Shiro’s either going to be his savior or his ruin, and Keith’s not sure which it is.

“The agency sent me a list of approved touches along with your list of preferences, but maybe you could tell me yourself,” Shiro says. He’s less than a foot from Keith now. “Can you tell me what you like, Keith? I want to help you.”

Keith almost asks _why_ then stops himself. He already knows the answer, of course he does. Shiro is here because it’s his _job_. Shiro is here as a platonic touch aid for a mateless Alpha—a last ditch effort for Keith to regain a sense of control and balance before his ruts get so bad he ends up hospitalized next time. 

Keith has heard all of the horror stories of what happens to Alphas who refuse to find a mate or share a rut—driven mad without an Omega to care for and center them. But Keith has never wanted or needed anyone, and unexpectedly presenting as an Alpha at thirteen—years before his peers—didn’t change that. If anything it only served to make Keith’s resolve to take care of himself _alone_ even stronger. He’d made it through foster care alone. He’d graduated high school and trade school alone. He sure as fuck could handle his ruts alone. Or at least that’s what he told himself. Except as the years went on, Keith began to understand why it was so rare to see Alphas without a mate—rarer still to see it happen by choice. 

An Alpha without a mate usually became despondent and reckless without an Omega, and year by year Keith feels himself turning into a wild thing he’s sure no one could love. 

Keith never wanted to need anyone, but here he is just days after the worst rut of his life needing a stranger more than he’s ever let himself need anyone. At only twenty-three, he isn’t the oldest Alpha unmated, but his record breaking early presentation and lack of rut sharing meant he’s already spent a decade denying his body and soul the one thing it craved—a mate.

“I want to scent you,” Keith whispers, feeling raw at the confession. 

In theory Keith knows how to scent. He’s watched enough ASMR videos about scenting in the pathetic hope some of the calmness the mated pairs on screen seem to be experiencing might trickle through the screen to him by osmosis.

It never has. Instead it makes Keith ache with longing.

Of course knowing how to scent someone in theory and actually doing it are different. _It’s a natural Alpha instinct_ everyone says. But Keith’s never been a good Alpha. It’s entirely possible he won’t do it right, that Shiro will know he’s inexperienced and fumbling his way through something he should know by now. Not that Shiro will tell him. That would be unprofessional, and he seems too polite anyway. 

If Keith does it right, it should please his Omega. The ultimate honor for any Alpha. If not, well—Shiro’s silence will say it all.

“Maybe we should sit,” Shiro suggests, as if reading Keith’s unease. “Or lay down. Or whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

“I...uh—yes. The couch is this way,” Keith mumbles, leading Shiro from the front door, down the little hallway and into his living room. He moves beside the couch but doesn’t sit down, unsure exactly how to sit or lay. Which one of them is supposed to initiate contact? How much can he touch, and where? There are too many unknowns and Keith is paralyzed by indecision. 

“Do you want to sit down?” Shiro asks when, instead resting on the couch, Keith begins to pace.

Keith shakes his head from side to side in a silent answer even though there’s nothing he wants more. This is exactly why he’s never shared a rut, or let anyone get close to him. He can barely admit to himself what he wants, saying it out loud to a virtual stranger is infinitely more terrifying.

“Hey listen, if, uh...if I’m not what you need it’s okay,” Shiro says, his tone decidedly neutral. He’s smiling at Keith but there’s a hint of unease creeping into his scent and it sours the sweetness. “I can call the agency and have them send someone else. Honestly, it’s not a problem.”

“Huh?” Keith says, not following along. 

Shiro sighs, pushing his bangs off his face. “It’s...I’ve had this happen before. I know I don’t exactly look like the typical Omega. Some Alphas well...let’s just say I’m not everyone’s type. But you know the agency uses this huge personality and compatibility test and if the agency got the match wrong and I’m not a good fit for you or what you want then—“

Keith’s brain cannot compute the idea of Shiro not being everyone’s type. 

“Wait, what?” Keith interrupts, unsure what’s happening. 

“Just...you don’t seem at ease.” Shiro’s lips thin, his eyes sad as if it’s somehow _his_ fault Keith is practically crawling out of his skin. “You’re clearly uncomfortable. I’m supposed to be helping and, well, if my appearance or something else about me isn’t putting you at ease then you deserve to have someone else who can give you exactly what you need and—“

“I’ve never scented anyone,” Keith blurts out, immediately dropping his gaze to the spot on his rug where he spilt his coffee yesterday and forgot to clean it. He can’t believe he just said that out loud.

“What?” Shiro queries, unmistakably confused. 

It’s Keith’s turn to sigh, scrubbing a hand over his face before speaking again. “I’m not uncomfortable. You...you’re fucking perfect okay. I’m nervous.”

“Oh.”

Keith grimaces. He’s already made a fool of himself and it’s not like Shiro is here because he likes Keith or anything, so it's not like he has anything to lose besides his pride, and he lost that the moment he contacted ATLAS and admitted he couldn’t take care of himself.

“It’s not just the scenting thing,” Keith continues, still staring at the rug. He can’t look at Shiro’s face while he says this or he won’t ever get it all out. “I’ve never shared a rut with anyone either. Ever. It’s, uh...it’s why I contacted the agency. The doctors said that my levels of tactile deprivation and rut resistance were beginning to have adverse effects on my psychological and physical well-being.”

“Keith.” 

The way he says it, Keith can almost pretend Shiro is someone who knows him—someone who cares.

“I’m not out of control or anything, okay. I won’t hurt you, I know what people think about unbonded Alphas but I’m—I won’t hurt you. I’m not angry or disturbed. I just...don’t feel so good.” 

“I believe you,” Shiro says, voice so fucking kind that Keith takes a step towards him without even realizing he’s doing it, his body itching to be closer to Shiro.

“Thank you,” Keith whispers.

“How do you feel right now?” Shiro asks, and this time it’s he who takes a step closer to Keith.

His proximity makes Keith’s entire body flush. Shiro’s radiating calmness in waves and it’s impossible for Keith to stay keyed up when Shiro’s pheromones are practically leaking. Even more of an assault to Keith’s sensory system is the way Shiro smells. He read something once about all Omegas smelling good to Alphas, some nonsense about biology and primal instinct, but Keith exists in society on a daily basis and he’s never once come into contact with an Omega that smells as fucking sweet as Shiro.

Shiro takes the last step until they're just a few inches apart, and Keith has to tilt his head back to look up into Shiro’s eyes. They’re so soft and his scent is so strong, and Keith thinks maybe he could be a little vulnerable with this man—that maybe, just maybe, he is safe.

“Exhausted. Achy. Like someone took my skin off and put it back on wrong,” he answers, probably a little more honestly than Shiro wanted. 

“C’mere,” Shiro says softly, holding his arms open.

Keith doesn’t even hesitate. He can’t remember the last person he hugged, but he falls into Shiro’s arms like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to do. It’s surprisingly easy to go to Shiro—easy to bury his face in his chest and exhale a shuddering breath. 

Once Keith is settled against Shiro’s body he wraps his arms around Keith—firm and secure—and the sound that falls from Keith’s lips is nothing short of a sob. Shiro’s body is solid as an oak tree, but his chest is surprisingly soft, and with Keith’s head pillowed on one of his pecs he can hear Shiro’s heart beating slow and steady. It’s the prettiest sound Keith’s ever heard.

“Oh, you give nice hugs,” Shiro whispers into the top of his head.

It can’t possibly be true. Keith’s definitely squeezing Shiro tight enough to bruise. Shiro is probably only saying what he thinks Keith needs to hear—there’s nothing an Alpha loves more than to know they are pleasing to their Omega after all. 

“You smell nice,” Shiro adds, rubbing his cheek against Keith’s hair. 

Something deep and primal inside of Keith shatters at those words. He’s never been pleasing to anyone, and the Alpha inside him keens at Shiro’s words.

Keith’s not Shiro’s Alpha and Shiro isn’t his Omega. Not really. But for the next hour and forty-six minutes, he can pretend. 

Acting on pure instinct Keith rubs his face in between Shiro’s chest, barely biting back a whimper at the feeling of Shiro’s plush pectoral muscles shifting beneath the movement of his face. It’s a testament to how desperate Keith is for touch that it’s not even sexual at that point. Shiro’s body looks sculpted by the gods, but all Keith can focus on is how safe and warm it feels to be pressed up so close to him.

Hands down Shiro is the most attractive person he’s ever seen, but Keith can’t even daydream about the other things he’d like to do with Shiro. All he can do is think about how bone-deep exhausted he is, and how long it’s been since he got more than a few hours of broken sleep.

Keith doesn’t even realize how out of it he must be until Shiro’s hands are under his ass hefting him up and carrying him to the couch. Keith’s small enough compared to Shiro, but he’s also not _small_ , especially with his muscle mass. Shiro must be so strong, and distantly Keith is aware this is something his brain will fantasize about later, but right now Keith’s brain has one thought and one thought only— _safe_. 

Shiro is a good Omega and Keith is safe, and this is everything Keith never thought he could have.

Shiro moves to lay him on the couch, and the sound that rips from Keith’s throat is nothing short of wounded. He can’t even be embarrassed about how much he sounds like a wild animal as his hands scramble to grab ahold of Shiro’s shirt. Just the thought of Shiro moving away from him right now is physically painful.

“Shhh, just relax, Keith,” Shiro whispers, leaning awkwardly over Keith as he attempts to kick off his boots without dislodging Keith’s death grip. “I’m right here. I’m not leaving. I promise.”

Keith’s jaw remains clenched, his hands fisted so tightly in the front of Shiro’s shirt that if he did try to move, Keith could stop him. He doesn’t. Instead, the second his boots are off he’s climbing onto the couch and settling his weight on top of Keith. He’s so fucking big, every inch of him covering Keith. Keith’s caged in beneath a complete stranger and it’s the single greatest moment of his life.

Later Keith might feel pathetic for this thought, but right now all he feels is relief. When you’re in survival mode it's hard to imagine there’s anything outside of that. Keith’s used to a buzz of adrenaline, more caffeine than is possibly healthy, and sheer stubbornness getting him through each day. He’s used to leaving no room for what he might want, or even need, because all he’s focused on is making it through one day at a time.

He’s never let himself think about how nice it would be to be touched like this—to be held. The truth is it’s not just nice, it’s life -altering.

Shiro is heavier than even Keith’s weighted blanket—a fuck ton heavier if Keith is honest—and the frantic buzzing that’s been in his brain for months begins to subside as he’s crushed under Shiro’s girth and blanketed in his scent. 

“Shhh,” Shiro soothes again, twisting so they’re side by side on the sofa with Keith’s back pressed against the couch cushions and every inch of Shiro pressed to his front. He’s wedged in tightly, and the sense of security makes his throat feel wobbly. 

Then Shiro does something that makes Keith grateful he’s already lying down. He smiles at Keith, tilting his head back to bare his neck. It’s the ultimate act of submission and trust from an Omega, and something needy and primal in Keith surges to life.

Someone wants him. Someone needs him. He has value. 

Acting on nothing but instinct and desire, Keith surges forward and rubs his nose against the glands on the side of Shiro’s neck—a barely noticeable lump beneath the skin visible only because of the angle of his head—because he wants Keith to see them.

Shiro’s scent explodes as Keith does it again, nosing against the glands and feeling them shift beneath his touch. His hands tremble against Shiro’s chest as he does it again. And again. Each time Shiro hums out a little sound of contentment as if Keith isn't a fumbling novice at this, as if he might be making Shiro feel good. A rush of endorphins flood Keith at the very idea.

“That’s it, such a good Alpha,” Shiro praises, stroking a hand through Keith’s hair. 

A chill races down Keith’s spin as large fingers graze his scalp a second time. The very last part of Keith's brain that is capable of objective and rational thought is aware that Shiro is probably just saying the words he thinks Keith needs to hear. Keith's not a good Alpha. He's never been a good Alpha. _Too reckless and headstrong—incapable of emotional attachment._ It’s what his psych file says. It’s the same thing the heat specialists echoed. It’s what everyone thinks. Keith knows it is. Keith’s never cared what other people think of him but when enough of them see you one way, sometimes you forget how you see yourself.

“You're so good at this,” Shiro murmurs, distracting Keith from his thoughts. He makes a soft little noise of pleasure as he sinks back into the sofa and tilts his neck back even further to expose the delicate underside of his jaw. It’s an act of submission, but, more than that, trust.

The sound Keith makes is unintelligible but Shiro doesn’t question it, simply cradling the back of Keith’s head gently. Keith’s never had anyone touch him like this, as if he’s something fragile and not a wild thing. 

“Keith.”

He makes another noise, ears ringing. He has no fucking idea what Shiro means by saying his name, but Shiro’s voice is so damn soothing and melodic that any bit of resistance and tension seeps out of Keith. This is okay. He can have this.

“Oh...that’s it,” Shiro says, voice going shaky as Keith drags his nose up the curve of Shiro's neck, inhaling slowly. 

Words can’t be trusted, but pheromones never lie. Keith's always had a good sense of smell, even by Alpha standards, and right now there's no denying that Shiro is happy. His scent is ripe with pleasure, with an undercurrent of calmness and something almost spicy that Keith can’t identify but finds utterly intoxicating.

It makes Keith's heart rattle in his chest as he digs his hands into the sofa and resists the urge to lick Shiro. Scenting is allowed. Encouraged even. Licking on the other hand is not part of the contract, and Keith will be damned before he does a single thing to make Shiro uncomfortable or ruin this.

Shiro hums again and Keith nearly rips a hole in the back of his couch. It's lucky Keith's got rock solid self-control, because the urge to taste Shiro is so strong he nearly cries.

He hadn't known. He hadn't fucking known it could feel like this. So many years spent refusing to want or need anyone and now this. He’d opened the door just a crack and now there would be no shutting it ever again.

"Hey, you're doing so good," Shiro praises again, and Keith shudders.

He can't remember the last person who touched him period, let alone the way Shiro is now—his fingers tracing through Keith’s hair and down the back of his neck. He doesn’t stop there, pleasure rumbling in Shiro’s chest as he hums softly and lets the palm of his massive hand slide up and down Keith’s spine as if he’s something worth touching.

Most people don't look at Keith. Not for long, anyway. And when they do, they think they know what they see. _Unbonded. Angry. Difficult. Problem Alpha._ Always too much but never fucking enough for anyone. 

But Shiro is here now, and he's murmuring encouragement and praise as Keith's nose shoves into the scent glands on the side of his neck with a force that's got to be almost uncomfortable. He's got one hand stroking through Keith's hair as the other soothes up and down Keith’s back in firm stokes. It feels so fucking good to be touched he nearly passes out.

He'd been sure he could go his entire life without needing this until it had almost been his undoing. 

Now he can’t help but wonder if his undoing will be Shiro.

Keith has no idea how long he stays like that just nuzzling Shiro’s neck. Long enough that the desperate ache clawing its way up his back begins to subside. Long enough that the headache and buzzing in his ears that he’d long ago accepted as his new normal nearly disappears.

There’s still an ache still there simmering beneath the surface but it’s dulled enough that Keith feels like he can finally fucking breathe. 

The longer Keith scents Shiro, the heavier his limbs get. Between Shiro’s calming pheromones, the feeling of fingers in his hair, and the adrenaline crash, Keith is close to passing out. He’s so damn tired his eyes hurt and there are weird electrical shocks shooting through his head and arms from months of sleep deprivation. But he can’t sleep now. He _won’t._

He can’t see the clock in the kitchen from his current vantage point, and there’s not a chance in hell he's moving even one inch away from Shiro’s warm body. For all Keith knows there could be forty minutes or ten minutes left until his time with Shiro is up—he’s lost all sense of the passage of time since the moment he fell into Shiro’s arms. All he knows is that whatever precious seconds he has left with this beautiful man—the kindest, most attractive Omega he’s ever met—he can’t waste them sleeping. 

He tries to stay awake, resisting the urge to let his eyes flutter shut as he scents Shiro, and jerking his head up off Shiro’s shoulder every time he gets too close to falling asleep.  
He’s doing pretty good at staying alert too even though it’s making his head start to hurt. At least, until Shiro’s hand makes its way up from the back of Keith’s neck back into his hair.

A low sound rumbles out of Shiro’s chest—something deeply soothing that reverberates through Keith as Shiro drags blunt fingers over Keith’s scalp. It’s the single greatest thing to ever happen to Keith and he’s helpless to stave off the moisture pooling at the corners of his eyes. 

Shiro does it again and again, switching to a drag of nails instead of fingertips, and Keith is done. There are a lot of things Keith can resist but this isn’t one of them—the pull to shove his entire face into Shiro’s neck and close his eyes too great. 

It feels so fucking good and Keith has been strong for so long, and now someone else is here. Someone else is the strong one, and Keith’s eyes are slipping shut before he can remind himself of all the reasons they shouldn’t.

He barely has time to worry about how he’s probably going to wake up alone before he’s passing out from exhaustion, one of Shiro’s hands cupping the back of his neck and the other massaging his scalp. All the while he hums, the sound of his heart beating loudly. 

When Keith wakes up it’s not alone, but to the sight of Shiro’s face. Shiro’s pretty, pretty face.

“Hey,” Shiro whispers, stroking the hair off Keith’s face.

Keith’s too sleep-addled to worry about repressing his shudder or pretending he’s anything other than eager for more touches. Shiro is still here, and he’s warm and strong, and Keith isn’t alone.

“Hi,” Keith echoes, suddenly feeling a little shy as he pushes his head back into Shiro’s palm in a silent request for more touching.

A soft laugh of amusement rumbles out of Shiro’s chest, his smile widening. Keith used up all his courage with that first small act, but thankfully Shiro seems to get the hint as he drags his fingers through Keith’s hair, letting the tips press firmly into Keith’s scalp.

The sigh it drags from Keith is almost embarrassing. Almost. Somehow with Shiro though, Keith doesn’t feel ashamed of relishing in this. It doesn’t feel like Shiro will laugh at him for needing this—for needing _Shiro_.

“How do you feel?” Shiro asks, an echo of his question from before Keith had fallen asleep.

He almost says fine. It’s his gut response whenever someone asks him even though it's never the truth. It’s easier than the truth and it's what people want to hear. Keith learned a long time ago that when people asked that question, they rarely wanted to really know the answer. Not when the answer was sometimes twisted and ugly and hard to hear.

Shiro’s chest rumbles with a low hum as he continues to soothe his hands through Keith’s hair. He has to close his eyes to try and think without the distraction of staring into Shiro’s pretty eyes. Somehow he doesn’t want to give Shiro false platitudes or a lie. He wants to give Shiro something he’s never anyone—the truth. His truth.

Unsurprisingly, Shiro is patient in the face of Keith’s silence. He doesn’t ask the question again or act impatient or annoyed at Keith’s hesitation to answer. He merely waits, continuing to touch Keith’s head in firm but gentle strokes as Keith exhales slowly and allows himself a moment to really stop and think about how he feels. His limbs are heavy from sleep, almost as if he’s drugged, yet he feels more rested than he has in nearly a year. The low-grade headache that he’s been dealing with for weeks is even gone, and though his head feels tender it’s not throbbing. Even the itch under his skin seems to have subsided.

All in all Keith feels good. It shocks him to realize that he feels _good_. This realization makes his throat feel funny when he tries to get the words out. It’s unexpectedly revealing, and Keith’s never felt so vulnerable in his entire life.

“Better,” he manages to say, eyes still squeezed shut. It’s not the whole truth but it’s part of it. It’s the only part of it he can give Shiro. Right now, anyway.  
“Oh, that’s good,” Shiro says as his hand slips down the back of Keith’s head and comes to a rest at the back of Keith’s neck. He cradles Keith there against his shoulder and Keith says nothing, listening to the gentle thud of Shiro’s heartbeat as he buries his face in Shiro’s shirt trying to memorize his scent. Trying to memorize everything. 

A lump forms in Keith’s throat as he tries not to think about how he’s going to cope without this sense of safety and belonging now that he’s been given a taste. _We’ll find your perfect match_ the agency had said. Keith hadn’t believed it, mostly because he hadn’t believed anyone could want him. Yet laying there cradled in Shiro’s arms, every part of him wants more. If Shiro wasn’t here in the flesh, Keith’s not sure he would’ve believed someone as perfect as him existed. Yet here he is. 

Keith tries to tell himself it’s just the lack of touch, that anyone’s hands on him might have this effect. The second he has the thought though, the Alpha in Keith rages against it. He knows it’s not the truth. Keith’s met thousands of Omegas in his lifetime and never had trouble resisting a single one of them. There’s something special about Shiro and he knows even if he contacted the agency for a second appointment, the Alpha in him would rebel at scenting anyone else—at letting anyone else get this close.

Long seconds tick by as Keith tries to push the thoughts away. If this is all he’s going to have, he’s gonna make sure he remembers every moment.

Then, unexpectedly, Shiro speaks.

“I could come back,” Shiro says, the words a question—a choice. For Keith. As if it matters what Keith wants. 

It gets Keith’s attention enough for him to drag his head off Shiro’s chest, resting his chin on Shiro’s pecs as he turns his gaze up to Shiro’s face.

“I thought this was usually a one-time thing,” Keith says quietly. 

“It can be,” Shiro tells him as his thumb toys with the long hairs at the back of Keith’s neck. “It usually is. But sometimes, well—the agency said if things went well that, uh...that regular sessions help to regulate nervous systems and help with emotional balance would be good.”

“Oh,” Keith breathes. _The agency. His emotional regulation issues._ Of course, that’s why Shiro would offer to come again. 

He knows Shiro isn’t being unkind, but it’s hard not to feel a little broken hearing it like that.

He needs Shiro, but Shiro doesn’t need him.

“You can request anyone you want but, if you wanted you could request me too,” Shiro whispers, he almost sounds nervous. As if Keith might not want to see him again.

It's the hint of uncertainty that makes Keith falter. Shiro has no reason to want Keith to ask for him again. Shiro has no stake in this. So why does he look like he cares?

"What do you want?" Keith asks, unable to stop himself from asking.

Shiro looks taken aback by the question. " _Me_?"

Keith nods.  
"Oh, uh...I mean...this isn't about me. The agency said what I want doesn't matter, that what you need—"

"It matters to me," Keith interrupts.

Shiro's cheeks pink, a bashful smile forming at the corner of his mouth as he whispers, "I'd really like it if you requested me again." 

It's everything Keith needs to hear. Even if this isn't the same thing for either of them, even if Shiro is here because it’s a job and Keith is here because he has no other option except to pay someone to fucking cuddle him,knowing Shiro wants him in even the smallest way soothes his raw heart 

"I'll ask for you," Keith promises, earning him a full-blown smile that punches all the air from his lungs

It's not until Shiro is gone and Keith is chasing his scent on the couch with a hand down his pants and a broken sob that he realizes Shiro stayed past his allotted hours without pay. 

****

*******

The calm that settles within Keith after his initial meeting with Shiro doesn’t last long. The urge to message the agency requesting Shiro the very next day is strong, but Keith’s stubbornness is stronger.

It isn’t that he doesn’t want to see Shiro again because, fuck, does he ever. He longs to see that beautiful smile again, to see those wide eyes and broad shoulders, to press against his massive chest and be enveloped in his scent. Keith wants to see him so bad he aches with it, which is all the more reason for him not to call the agency.

He doesn’t want to _need_ him. He doesn’t want to need anyone. He made it this far in life all on his own.

After a week of sleepless nights, Keith can no longer deny that he doesn’t just want to see Shiro, he needs to. He’s tired of spending the long lonely nights tossing and turning, tired of being unable to sit on his own couch without a visceral ache in his chest, and tired of his heart racing with the memory of Shiro’s touch. His nerves are set on edge—as if his body isn’t quite his own—and he caves and sends an emergency request for Shiro’s company. 

There’s no immediate response from the agency or Shiro, and Keith does what he can to ignore the desperate need for physical contact clawing its way up his spine. It’s worse than ever before, and Keith knows the Alpha within is aching for its Omega. No matter how many times Keith tells himself Shiro isn’t his, his body refuses to believe what his mind knows to be true. 

Shiro shows up an hour later dressed in a pair of sweats and a thin white tank top that clings to every inch of his body—his skin covered in a light sheen of sweat. 

Keith’s hand grips the open door frame, his nails scratching the wood as he reminds himself to act normal and not jump Shiro. Shiro, who is standing on his doorstep sweaty and disheveled, his skin glistening beneath the late afternoon sun.

“Sorry, I was out for a run and my phone battery died. I came as soon as I got the message,” Shiro tells him, looking apologetic.

The wind shifts, sending a waft of Shiro’s scent in Keith’s direction and Keith’s jaw goes wobbly at the familiar scent. It’s stronger than the first time, tinged with his exertion and sweat, and it makes the primal part of Keith’s brain ache to rub himself against Shiro to mix their scents. 

There’s so much Keith wants to say. He wants to tell Shiro why he didn’t call sooner. He wants to thank him for coming at all. He even wants to confess about the sleepless nights and missing Shiro’s scent on his couch. He can’t say any of it. Not when it’s taking all his self-control not to climb Shiro like a tree and bury his face against Shiro’s sweat-covered neck and never come out.

Shiro seems unsure what to make of his silence. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d call,” he says, standing there in front of Keith and looking a little nervous—as if he isn’t everything Keith wants. As if he isn’t every Alpha’s dream come true—handsome, reliable, steady, and calming. 

He’s perfect. He’s so fucking perfect. Too perfect for Keith.

“I wanted to,” Keith answers, because apparently being painfully honest with Shiro is now his new normal. 

Maybe that's why he didn’t call, he thinks. Because there’s a part of him that wants to be honest and exposed with Shiro. It’s not as if Keith hasn’t been around Omegas before. He’s not a recluse. He lives in the real world, after all. A world full of other Alpas, Betas, and of course Omegas. Never in his life has he wanted anyone the way he wants the man standing in front of him.  
When Shiro is near him Keith wants to open himself up in a way he never has before, and it terrifies him.

To Keith’s surprise, his silence and his, well, _everything_ , has apparently not turned Shiro off or made him want to leave. Not yet, anyway.

“I really, really want to hug you,” Shiro confesses, sending Keith’s fragile heart aflutter. “But I’m kind of sweaty and gross and—“ 

Keith cuts Shiro off by launching himself into his arms, unable to care if any of his nosy-ass neighbors can see. Shiro huffs out a little sound of surprise as Keith squeezes him around the middle in a death grip. Again, Shiro doesn't seem to mind having an unexpected armful of Keith, wrapping his own arms around Keith and tightening the hug.

Shiro was right—he is sweaty. So sweaty his shirt is almost wet, clinging to his body in all the right places. With his face shoved against Shiro’s shoulder, Keith can see droplets of sweat pooling in the hollow of his collarbones. Up this close he’s also acutely aware that Shiro’s heartbeat, which was even and steady last time, is beating erratically, likely because he apparently ran to Keith’s house.

The sweat though. The sweat is what really has Keith’s senses flaring. It makes Keith feel crazy to have Shiro’s scent magnified like this, the muskiness of his natural scent intensified to a level that sends chills through Keith’s body.

Inhibitions apparently gone, Keith bunches his hands into the front of Shiro’s sweat-soaked shirt and rises onto his tiptoes to shove his nose into Shiro’s neck.

Shiro’s body responds immediately, a soft hum of pleasure leaving his lips as he angles his head back so the skin at his neck is taut—scent glands exposed. 

“You should have called me sooner,” Shiro says, a little breathlessly.

There is no hint of condemnation or judgement in his tone. If anything, it almost sounds like he cares. It’s more likely that Keith’s imagining what he wants to hear, but it soothes the frayed edges of him all the same to think he matters.

“I will next time,” Keith says, knowing it’s not a lie.

“Promise?” Shiro asks, soothing his palms up and down Keith’s back as Keith nuzzles into his neck.

“Yes,” Keith whispers, lips accidentally ghosting across Shiro’s skin.

Shiro shivers at the contact and the Alpha in Keith preens. He did that. He made his Omega feel good. 

“I’m glad,” Shiro says, his voice a little breathy. “I’m free tomorrow. All day.”

“Tomorrow,” Keith echoes, his thoughts lost in a new haze of pleasure. It’s hard to focus on anything except the way it feels to scent Shiro and the firm caress at his back. 

“Tomorrow,” Shiro repeats.

****

*******

That night when Keith crawls into bed alone, he doesn’t feel _alone._ Not in the same way as usual. There’s a lightness in his body as he stretches out beneath the heavy duvet and instead of tossing and turning all night, he hugs an extra pillow and drifts to sleep almost immediately. When he wakes the next morning, it’s to the sight of the late morning light streaming through the crack in his curtains.

He rolls onto his side and looks at the clock, surprised to realize it’s nearly nine in the morning and that, unlike every night of his life for the last few years, he didn’t toss and turn all night but slept soundly. Whether it’s from the hour spent scenting Shiro yesterday, or the promise of seeing him again so soon, he’s not sure. Likely both. All Keith knows for sure is he feels good.

The morning goes by quickly. Keith makes his bed, showers, and putters around his house tidying until the doorbell rings at exactly eleven.

Keith can feel a smile on forming on his face before he even opens the door. A smile that goes wonky when he catches sight of Shiro standing on his front doorstep looking like an angel. He’s no longer sweaty and disheveled, but freshly-showered. His hair looks even softer than usual today and his bangs—still a little damp at the tips—fall across his forehead. He’s dressed in a pair of well-fitting jeans and a dark purple v-neck shirt that dips low enough to reveal the swell of his pecs and a hint of chest hair.

The most devastating thing about him though is the smile on his face as he looks at Keith. 

Keith’s knees go weak. He grips the doorframe—nails digging into the wood hard enough to chip the paint—as he returns the smile. 

“Hi,” Shiro says, his voice washing over Keith.

“Hi,” Keith echoes, his eyes nearly fluttering shut as Shiro steps around Keith to come inside. Shiro’s body brushes up against his own as he slips through the doorway. Keith likes that he feels welcome enough to come in without Keith needing to invite him inside. He likes the way Shiro’s body brushes against his, albeit briefly. He likes the possessive pride that floods his sensory system at the idea of his home smelling like Shiro. He likes everything about Shiro being here. 

“So, I had an idea,” Shiro declares the moment he steps inside. The scent of Shiro’s body wash floods Keith’s nostrils. His natural scent is still there beneath the soap, though a little less strong than the day before. Keith has to bite down on his bottom lip to stop from begging to scent him again.

Shiro just always smells so fucking good. 

“I like ideas,” Keith answers, still affected by Shiro’s proximity but feeling more normal than he has in ages, and curious to find out what Shiro has in mind.

“Good, that’s good,” Shiro says, tapping his fingers on the cover of the book clutched in his left hand. Keith had been so distracted by everything else about Shiro he hadn’t even noticed he’d been holding anything at first. “I, uh...I did some reading.”

Shiro turns the book, holding it between both of his hands now. The actions draws Keith’s eyes to the cover of the book, and the title— _Intimacy and Your Alpha: The Key to Unlocking Trust._

Keith’s eyes widen in surprise.

“I didn’t realize the agency was so thorough,” Keith mumbles, heat flooding his face at the idea of Shiro reading something like that and thinking about Keith. He wonders what types of things are written inside—wonders if Shiro thought about him.

“Oh, that’s not—no,” Shiro blushes, the smile falling off his face as he shifts his feet. He looks nervous. “This wasn’t because of the agency or anything. I just...I did some research on my own and found this book and thought it might help.”

That makes heat flare within Keith.

“And did it?” Keith asks, licking his lips and trying very hard to act normal, whatever the fuck normal is. “Help, I mean.”

“I think it might.” Shiro’s smile begins to return. “I certainly hope so, anyway. I want to do something for you. If you’ll let me. If you trust me.”

The idea of Shiro wanting to make Keith feel good does something funny to the primal part of his brain, his heart thrashing in his chest and screaming _your Omega wants to please you_ even if he has to remind himself Shiro isn’t his Omega.

“Alright,” Keith manages to get out, proud of himself for not turning into a blubbering mess at the first hint of kindness or affection. He feels a little pathetic—his nerves a little shot. But something about Shiro makes that vulnerability feel a little less scary.

"I’d like to wash your hair?"

Whatever the fuck Keith might've expected, it wasn't this.

"You—what?"

"Wash your hair," Shiro repeats, straightening his shoulders.

"I thought we weren't supposed to be naked," Kerith stupidly, thinking about the fine print of the contract. It’s probably one of the stupidest things he could’ve said, but Keith’s accepted his brain doesn’t work quite right around Shiro.

"You don't need to be naked for me to wash your hair," Shiro says kindly, "and we don't have to do that either. Not if you don't want to. I just thought, well—maybe it could feel nice."

"You just...you want to wash my hair?" Keith repeats. 

"Yes," Shiro says, more confidently this time. "I really do. That is, if you'll let me." 

"I'll let you," Keith agrees easily. It’s a little scary to realize just how much he would let Shiro do. He's never been one to trust people, especially not this soon. But every single bit of him trusts Shiro on a level that makes absolutely no sense.

"If you change your mind at any time, just tell me." 

Keith’s never actually given any thought to someone washing his hair, but Shiro looks so damn hopeful. The memory of how nice it had felt to have Shiro’s hands stroking his hair the day before returns to the forefront of his mind. This might feel nice. 

"I won't," Keith assures him. 

Shiro could touch him just about any way possible and he wouldn't change his mind.

The answer makes Shiro smile and Keith flush with something akin to pride. He likes being the reason a man like Shiro might smile. 

The small part of Keith’s brain that’s still capable of objective and rational thought muses that leading Shiro through his house and into his master bathroom should be more awkward. He’s never taken anyone in here. Ever. He’s acutely aware of the empty coffee cup on his bedside table, the stack of comic books on his nightstand, and the fact that he forgot to make his bed. Yet it doesn’t feel wrong. It doesn’t feel like Shiro is someone he just met as he takes Shiro’s hand and guides him into the massive bathroom.

It’s an older house so the bathroom is nothing fancy, but it’s spacious with a window that overlooks the back garden and soaking tub in the corner. The morning light is filtering in through the window above the tub, bathing the room in warmth. 

“Do you have towels?” Shiro asks.

Keith nods, reluctant to let go of Shiro’s hand but doing it just the same so that he can cross the room and retrieve a towel from the linen cupboard in the corner. He turns around then crosses the room to hand it to Shiro.

“We need more of these. A lot more.”

Keith can’t imagine how wet Shiro plans to get him to need more than one towel, but he doesn’t feel capable of questioning the request. And truthfully, he doesn’t feel the need to either. He trusts Shiro. 

With a silent nod Keith turns around, shuffling his socked feet across the cold tile floor as he moves back to the corner and pulls out all six of the remaining clean towels from the cupboard. He’s glad he did his laundry yesterday or all that would’ve been in there would be one threadbare washcloth.

“Thank you,” Shiro says when Keith hands the stack over.

The reason for the excessive amount of bath towels immediately becomes evident when Shiro drops to his knees and begins to carefully arrange them on the floor. He unfolds one, lying it lengthwise near the tub before arranging the others over the cold, hard edge. Keith's heart begins to beat erratically, a lump forming in his throat at the sight of Shiro on his knees doing something solely to make Keith more comfortable. He could’ve easily just had Keith lean over the bathtub, but instead he’s making it more comfortable, presumably because he _wants_ to. 

A million thoughts filter through Keith’s brain but none of them make it to his mouth. Instead, he merely watches Shiro in silence, a fair bit of amusement and no small amount of pleasure building in his chest at the sight of Shiro’s face, determined and focused as he works. Shiro arranges and then rearranges the towels multiple times, his face screwed up with all the intensity of someone building a rocket and not whatever it is he’s doing.

A minute later Keith realizes what Shiro is doing. 

“You’re making a nest,” Keith blurts.

The abruptness of his comment makes Shiro turn his big, beautiful eyes on Keith. There’s something there hidden beneath the smile he plasters on his face, something that looks like nerves. 

“Oh, uh….it’s not actually,” but he cuts himself off as he glances down at his own handiwork, then back up to blink at Keith. He looks a bit like a deer in headlights. “Shit, I guess it kind of is a nest. I hope that’s not too weird. I know its not usually an Alpha thing but it’s a...it’s—”

“It’s okay,” Keith whispers, cutting Shiro off from his nervous rambling. His heart beats so hard it’s a wonder Shiro hasn’t commented on it. “It looks nice.”

As far as Keith is aware, nests usually involve blankets and pillows and maybe even clothes from someone’s mate. Not threadbare bath towels that have seen better days. Then again, Keith’s never been with an Omega nesting, has never heard of one making a nest for an Alpha and not the other way around. His limited exposure to nesting is the bad roleplay in the heat sharing porn he sometimes watches. 

It doesn’t feel weird to see something almost resembling a nest being made for him though. It feels, well—nice.

“Okay, good. That’s good,” Shiro says, glancing down at the nest and running his hands over one of the towels to smooth it out. Apparently content with his work he bites his bottom lip then turns his gaze back to Keith. “Ready?”

Keith once went bungee jumping on a dare, this feels a bit like that—except he’s not sure what he’s standing on the edge of and he doesn’t have a fucking clue who or what might catch him. Somehow he’s ready for the free fall all the same.

“Yes,” he answers. 

Shiro reaches over to turn on the tap, fussing with the temperature. Keith takes the pause to try and slow his erratic breathing in a pathetic attempt not to embarrass himself in front of Shiro. Or, more than he already has, anyway. He can’t begin to imagine how pathetic Shiro must think he is to be so worked up about something as simple as being touched.

“Perfect,” Shiro mutters to himself, apparently content. He lets the water continue to run, filling the tub with water before returning his attention to Keith.

“So, uh...how do you want me?”

“On the floor,” Shiro answers without pause. 

“The floor. Sure,” Keith chokes out, nearly falling on his ass as he fights off the filthy mental image that Shiro’s words evoke in his traitorous brain. It’s hard enough for Keith to believe Shiro is so eager to keep coming back to help him with the touch thing. He doesn’t need to go and add outlandish fantasies on top of it. 

“Do you want to leave the shirt on or take it off?” Shiro asks, still kneeling beside Keith. His hand hovers midair for a few seconds before he drops it to his lap.

“Whatever you think is fine with me,” Keith says, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt. 

“It’s up to you. However you’re most comfortable, Keith.”

Keith inhales slowly through his nose. It’s all been up to Keith. During every interaction, Shiro’s utmost concern has been Keith’s comfort and well-being— especially his boundaries. He’s sure some of it has got to be part of some stupid contract with the agency, but his gut also tells him a large part of it is just Shiro. He’s a good guy like that—caring and compassionate and trustworthy. He’s probably just helping Keith out because that’s what nice Omegas like Shiro do—they help people. 

Keith wants to believe Shiro does it because he cares and not out of pity, but he doesn’t know Shiro well enough to be sure, and it’s a fuck ton to hope for. 

“Whatever you want, Keith,” Shiro repeats, a firm but gentle squeeze to his shoulder. He’s just so fucking kind.

“Off I guess,” Keith mumbles, reaching back to grab his shirt behind his neck and yank it off in one go. He’d done his laundry yesterday alright, but only towels. This is his only clean shirt and on the off chance it gets wet, Keith doesn’t want to spend the second half of his time with Shiro shirtless and self-conscious. Better to get it over now. 

Once his shirt is off, Keith tosses it into the corner far enough away it won’t accidentally get splashed. Then he turns his gaze straight ahead to stare at the wall and not Shiro so he doesn’t have to witness his reaction to Keith’s less than perfect Alpha physique firsthand. He knows he isn’t exactly the typical Alpha in any sense of the word. That, and Keith’s body is host to more than a few scars—evidence of the close scrapes and accidents from a lifetime spent on the defense. 

As expected, Shiro’s eyes roam over his chest and the faint pink scars. What’s not expected is the silence. It’s enough to get Keith’s curiosity piqued. Keith hates his curiosity because it makes him do stupid things he knows aren’t smart, like looking up into Shiro’s eyes. What he sees makes his heart stutter. 

Shiro is looking all right, but there’s no pity or judgement in his eyes. There’s not even a hint of disappointment. Instead, there’s something that looks dangerously close to appreciation. Impossibly, Keith’s heart thuds harder. 

"Just close your eyes and relax,” Shiro says softly, as if it's that easy.

Keith lays back as instructed, but he doesn’t relax. Not because of discomfort—Shiro did an incredible job of making the floor as comfortable as possible given what he had to work with. No, it’s his own brain that won’t let him relax—acutely aware of Shiro pushing up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows to reveal strong forearms dusted in dark hair. He’s also aware of the shift of muscle in Shiro’s thighs as he scoots closer and, fuck, is he ever viscerally aware of Shiro’s scent as he leans over Keith to turn the water off.

“Hey, you’re doing great,” Shiro tells him as he sits back on his heels.

The praise makes Keith snort. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yeah you are. You’re trusting me. That takes a lot of emotional fortitude, and a hell of a lot of guts. It’s not something I take lightly.”

“Oh,” Keith mumbles, cheeks heating. There’s earnestness on his face in spades and the scent of honesty wafts from his body. It’s a lot, knowing with unflinching certainty that those words are the truth.

“Thank you, Keith. Thank you for trusting me.”

There’s not a single thing that Keith could say that wouldn’t strip him raw, so he says nothing.

“Lay your head back so your neck is on the towels and close your eyes. Just let me take care of you.”

Keith has never liked being told what to do, unless apparently it's by Shiro. His voice is so damn soothing to Keith that the idea of just doing as he’s told and letting someone else be in control for a little bit sounds so nice. Despite his normal inclination to resist doing what anyone else wants him to, he does just that—tipping his head back and scooting down so that his hair falls back over the tub. He takes one last lingering look at Shiro’s pretty face then closes his eyes and relaxes. It’s easier than he thought it might be, maybe because he’s not relaxing for himself but for Shiro. 

"How do you like the water?" Shiro asks, “I’ve got it tepid right now.” 

"Hot," Keith answers without missing a beat.

"Why am I not surprised," Shiro laughs. Keith can’t see him, but they’re so close to each other that he can almost feel the way the amusement rumbles through Shiro’s body. “Let me make it a little hotter.”

Keith hums out what he hopes works as some sort of agreement. Now that he’s got his eyes shut he’s loath to open it again and risk messing up this tenuous sense of calm that’s already starting to seep over him.

Shiro says nothing as he moves, his t-shirt brushing against the side of Keith's cheek as he leans over him to fidget with the water temperature. Keith breathes in and out slowly as steam fills the room and cotton tickles his cheek. Once Shiro is satisfied with the water temperature he shuts the faucet off, presumably sitting back on his heels.  
"When's the last time someone else washed your hair?" Shiro asks.

It’s a simple question with a not-at-all-simple answer. Keith’s sure at some point in his life _someone_ washed his hair when he was too little to do it himself, but if they did he can’t remember it. 

"I don't know," Keith answers. It’s the truth, but not even close to all of it. Somehow it feels more revealing to be honest with his eyes shut. He can't try to gauge Shiro's reaction, and it’s oddly unsettling. 

"My mom used to wash mine, especially when I was sick,” Shiro says, the smooth sound of his voice soothing over the ragged edges of Keith's childhood memories. “Then when I presented early and got heat sick a lot, she'd take me in the bathroom like this and wash my hair."

"I don't remember my mom," Keith confesses, a lump forming in his throat. He has no fucking idea why he’s saying it. "Or my dad." 

"Who took care of you?" Shiro asks, words followed by the sound of water rippling before a warm cup of water is being poured over the back of his head. It's unexpected and soothing and Keith's throat closes off.

Shiro doesn't press for an answer or repeat the question when Keith says nothing. Instead, he's patient as he dips the cup back into water over and over, his palm resting on Keith’s forehead to block his face from getting wet. He does it more times than Keith can count, does it until every inch of Keith's hair is saturated with water.

It’s only when Shiro removes his hand from Keith’s forehead musters up the courage to whisper, "It’s always been just me."

The quiet sound of Shiro's inhale is unmistakable and Keith's glad his eyes are shut in case there's pity on his face. He’s used to the pity. He doesn’t want to see it on Shiro. It takes a few seconds for Shiro to say anything, seconds during which Keith nearly opens his eyes to try and gauge his reaction, but he can't quite bring himself to do it. 

With his eyes shut the sounds around him are magnified. There’s the loud click of the shampoo being uncapped which floods his ear, followed by the squelch of shampoo rubbed between Shiro's hands. Then those hands are in Keith's hair. 

When Shiro speaks his voice is unnaturally quiet, but there's a strength to his voice that makes Keith believe him. "Well, you've got me now."

"Yeah," Keith says, desperate to keep the tremble out of his voice. 

Because I'm paying you, he thinks.

He doesn't say it out loud because Shiro is here and there are strong fingers working their way into his hair and sending shudders through his body. For the first time in his life, Keith doesn't have a hollow ache in his chest, and maybe for a little while it doesn't matter why—or if it’s not real. 

They drift into a companionable silence after that, Shiro's dexterous fingers digging into Keith’s scalp. He's methodical and thorough, scrubbing every inch of Keith's head from the base of his skull to the delicate area just behind his ears. It feels good. It feels so fucking good.

It's almost too much, almost too intimate, and Keith is glad his eyes are shut because he's sure his soul would implode if he looked Shiro in the eyes. 

Keith doesn't even realize he's trembling until Shiro pauses, removing his hands from Keith’s hair. There’s shifting beside him, as one of the towels is draped over Keith like a blanket before Shiro’s hands return to his hair. Keith knows his trembling has nothing to do with being cold.

The fingers in his hair continue longer than Keith might have guessed. At this point, Shiro is more massaging Keith’s head than washing his hair. Not that Keith’s going to complain about semantics, not when it means Shiros capable hands are digging into his scalp, nails dragging across his head and thumbs massaging his temples. 

Eventually Shiro finishes, his hands once again leaving Keith’s head before returning with a cup of water. He rinses the shampoo from Keith's hair with extra care, cradling the back of his neck before pouring another full cup of warm water over his head. With every cup full of water, Keith feels his throat grow tighter.

Somehow having his hair rinsed feels even more intimate than the washing itself. He’s acutely aware of the sound of Shiro’s slow, steady breathing as he looms over Keith. Shiro is slow and careful as he pours the water, ensuring none of the soapy water ends up in Keith’s eyes.

“There we go,” Shiro says softly. 

Keith can only assume all the shampoo is gone now and is painfully sorry it'll be over, but then it's not. Then, Shiro reaches past him and another bottle is being uncapped. 

“Conditioner,” Shiro utters, the sound of his hands rubbing together dulled by the sudden blood rushing through Keith’s ears. 

Shiro’s not done. Shiro’s going to keep touching him. 

Everything comes to a standstill as Keith holds his breath. He's slower this time, massaging his fingers into Keith's scalp and temples until Keith's left quivering and boneless. 

He spends so long the water goes cold, and Shiro runs warm water again before rinsing Keith's hair once more.

Keith's sure his parents must've done this when he was very little, but he was too small to remember if they did and none of his foster parents ever had. Not like _this_. Not like touching Keith is some sort of privilege instead of a responsibility they never wanted. 

No one ever had ever had this level of affection or humanity to spare for an angry Alpha who insisted he didn't want it.

Except he had wanted it. He just never knew how to give voice to his desire for things he knew no one was going to give. He’d wanted it so much it hurt, wanted it so much he sought out contact in the only ways he could— thrill seeking escapades and fistfights. Back after first presenting, he’d thought a painful touch was better than none at all. It’s only now that Keith understands how long he’d allowed the lack of value others saw in him to inform how he saw himself. 

Keith’s jaw quivers as he tries to suck in a deep breath hoping it’s not too obvious how worked up he’s getting over something so mundane. If shiro notices he’s polite enough not to mention it, merely pushing back the wet hairs clinging to Keith's forehead before rinsing it clean.

When he’s done, Shiro squeezes out the excess water from Keith’s hair and places his broad palm on Keith's lower back to help him sit up. Keith opens his eyes and immediately his head spins, though if it’s from Shiro’s proximity or the hair washing, he’s not sure. The urge to slam his eyes shut again is strong, but Shiro is so close Keith can feel his warm breath across his cheek, can practically feel the other man’s heart beating. He doesn’t want to look away from what he sees.

“How do you feel?” Shiro asks.

_Fragile. Happy. Confused. Hopeful._

Shiro lifts the towel from around Keith’s shoulder to gently begin to dry his hair as he waits for Keith to answer. Keith for his part tries to think of how to explain how he feels without ripping his heart out and presenting it to Shiro on a silver platter.

“A lot,” is what he ends up saying. It’s not really the appropriate response to Shiro’s question, but it's the only thing Keith can say without risking a complete loss of verbal control.

“That makes sense. After the accident that got me this arm,” he says, wiggling his metal fingers, “I couldn’t wash my own hair for...for a long time. The nurses at the hospital did it, but I think they were trying to give me autonomy or something by making it as short as possible. It just kinda made me feel like someone no one wanted to touch me, though. Sometimes people mean well but they end up making things worse, you know? But when I got discharged a few months later, well, the first thing my mom did was take me back into my bathroom and do this. I was eighteen and old enough and capable enough to do it by myself by then, but it was...nice.”

Shiro trails off, still gently towel drying Keith's hair. He smooths the longer bits at the back through the towel, careful not to pull too hard. Just when Keith is sure he’s done, Shiro leans back and grabs the brush off the edge of the sink before moving behind Keith. Shiro drags the brush through his hair again and moisture pools in the corner of Keith's eyes. Again, Shiro is careful, working the small knots out with his fingers before moving the brush back to smooth down his wild mess of hair. 

Even after the last few knots are untangled, Shiro continues to stroke the brush across Keith's scalp and down the back of his head over and over. It’s so different than the matter of fact way Keith normally does. It's so much gentler. 

It’s all Keith can do to try not to cry as he wonders if this is what it feels like to matter to someone—if this is what it feels like to be loved.

After he’s done, they find their way to Keith’s bedroom, instead of the living room like before. In a move that feels natural, Keith takes Shiro’s hand and guides him to the bed where they spend the rest of their time together, cuddling and listening to old records on Keith’s antique radio in the corner.

Keith waits as long as he can after Shiro’s departure before grabbing his phone to text the agency and request a bi-weekly meet up with Shiro. If Keith could afford it he'd ask for him every fucking day, but as it is, twice a week is the most he can swing, and even that is a stretch. The dent in his bank account is worth it, though. Anything would be worth seeing Shiro again.

Request complete, Keith crawls into bed to the pleasant discovery that Shiro’s smell still lingers on the pillow, still lingers on his favorite blanket. He’s not remotely cold but he cocoons himself in it just the same, nuzzling his cheek against the soft, worn cotton and inhaling Shiro’s scent. The second the scent permeates his senses Keith’s entire body relaxes.

The relaxation is short lived as a horrible thought occurs to Keith. What if Shiro says no? Once that thought hits him, more begin to filter into his brain. He wonders what Shiro thinks about Keith’s request to see him not once a week but twice. He wonders if Shiro's surprised or thinks it's pathetic. 

Shiro hasn’t done anything to indicate he might decline, but then again how could Keith know for sure. His heart aches with the realization that if his request is declined, Keith will be left with nothing but a handful of memories and a Shiro-shaped hole in his heart.

Keith is saved from spiraling completely by the ding of his phone alerting him to a new text message. It's almost embarrassing how his hand flies out of his blanket cocoon to reach for his phone on the nightstand. Then again, there’s no one here to witness his reaction to receiving a single fucking text message. He holds the phone in his hand then hesitates. This message could be the best or worst thing that’s ever happened to him. He closes his eyes to take a steadying breath, reminding himself that if it says no, Keith will find a way to move on. Not that he believes the lie he's trying to feed himself.

He won’t be fine. He knows he won’t. He doesn’t know how he could ever go back to a life without being touched again. Even more, he knows he only wants that touch from Shiro.

Unable to put off finding out a second longer, he swipes the phone open, the new message waiting for him on the home screen.

_T. Shirogane has accepted your request._

A wave of calm overtakes him.

He will see Shiro again. 

****

*******

The next week Shiro comes over at their new set time. He shows up with open arms, literally and figuratively, and a smile on his face. He doesn’t mention the increased appointments or the agency at all.

Instead he walks into Keith’s house like he’s welcome, like they’re friends. He takes Keith’s hand and guides him to the couch before pulling Keith between his spread legs to lay back against Shiro’s chest. He wraps his arms around Keith, palms rubbing up and down Keith’s chest in firm strokes that have Keith nearly purring.

Three days later he does the same. The only difference is this time he shows up with a new movie to watch. They take Keith’s laptop to his bedroom— _”So you’ll be more comfortable”,_ Shiro whispers as he takes Keith to bed like it’s his own. They kick off their shoes and collapse on top of the duvet, but it's less than five minutes before Shiro retrieves the extra blankets from the living room and cocoons them both in another makeshift nest. Keith has no idea if it’s something Shiro likes for himself, or something he wants to do for Keith. Maybe it’s both. Keith likes it far too much to question it.

The movie plays and Keith pays absolutely no attention to the plot. It’s impossible to care about what's happening on screen when there’s a warm body spooned up behind him. It’s impossible to focus on the dialogue when he can _feel_ Shiro’s steady heartbeat thudding against his back. As the movie plays Keith lets his eyes drift shut. He’s not tired, just relaxed, and he lets go of pretending to care about the movie in favor of focusing on the thumb stroking his hip over the the thin cotton of his t-shirt and the way it feels when Shiro laughs at something on screen—a soft rumble that reverberates into Keith’s body.

Though Keith can only afford an hour appointment, Shiro stays for the entire two hour movie. When the movie is over Keith expects him to leave. He doesn’t.

Week after week goes on like that. Sometimes Shiro brings a book and reads to him, sometimes it’s a new movie he thinks Keith will like. Other days they do nothing but sit together and talk. Keith’s never been good at talking but it’s easy with Shiro. Too easy.

It continues like that for months. Nothing about their interactions feels clinical or like an appointment, and despite the fact that Keith can only still afford an hour appointment, most days Shiro stays two to three times that long. He doesn’t mention it and neither does Keith.

They spend time together like friends. Sometimes it almost feels like more. If not for the dent in Keith’s bank account he’d almost forget he was paying Shiro to spend time with him. 

The more time that passes the harder it becomes to pretend that this is just about being touched. It’s been long enough now that Keith knows it’s so much more than that. It’s not just being touched. It’s being touched by _Shiro_.

Keith does his best not to think too far ahead about when his time with Shiro might have to come to an end, or about wanting more than he can have. The future is a dangerous thing to think about, and Keith has to remind himself at least once a week that this is a business arrangement and nothing more. 

Except the more Shiro comes over, the harder it becomes for Keith to remember that it doesn't mean anything. Or, at the very least, if it _does_ mean something, it doesn’t mean the same thing to Shiro that it does to Keith. 

Shiro is thoughtful and gentle and so kind it makes Keith’s chest ache. And handsome. He’s easily the most attractive fucking person alive. But it’s more than that too. With his big brains, big muscles, and big well—everything—it’d be easy for Shiro to be conceited or an asshole about it, but he’s not. Not even close. He’s self-deprecating, which matches Keith’s sense of humor well, and funny in a way that’s ridiculous. 

The more Keith learns, the more he likes. It goes way beyond discovering that Shiro has great taste in books but the world’s worst taste in movies. It goes beyond learning that he likes old man bran cereal for breakfast but also eats dessert before dinner.

In their quiet moments together, Keith gets to know Shiro. The real Shiro.

One day after having washed Keith’s hair again and taken him to the couch to cuddle, Shiro unexpectedly talks about growing up in a family of Omegas and how afraid he’d been to present and have the way people viewed him change the way they treated him. He talks about the way being constantly mistaken for an Alpha changed the way people treated him once they found out he’s an Omega.

Shiro talks about the accident that cost him his arm and the career he’d spent a lifetime dreaming of. He talks and talks until the sun goes down and his throat goes raw, and though Shiro is the one holding Keith, it’s Keith who feels as if he’s holding a piece of Shiro’s heart. The bits and pieces of himself that Shiro reveals are painful and beautiful and Keith treasures them the same way he does everything else about Shiro. 

Keith's not sure if the adversity and trauma Shiro faced is what makes him so empathetic and kind with Keith, or if he was always like that. He suspects it’s a bit of both. At his core, Shiro is just a good person. A really good fucking person. 

Every time Shiro offhandedly mentions something he endured, a protective surge engulfs Keith. He wants to tear down anyone who ever hurt Shiro or made him think he’s less than perfect. Logically Keith is aware that Shiro is not his. Shiro's not his partner or lover, and he sure as fuck isn't Keith's Omega. But Keith’s hindbrain apparently didn't get the memo, because the more time Keith spends with Shiro, the more Keith's entire body screams _he is your Omega, show him he's yours._

It’s a mantra that Keith does his best to ignore.

Which is to say, he doesn’t do very well.

It’s there in the back of his mind when Shiro unexpectedly brings takeout on the six month anniversary of their first meeting. Shiro looks a little bashful about it, mumbling something about just being hungry. Keith knows it’s likely a coincidence and Shiro probably has no idea what day it is, but the little voice in his brain screams _your Omega cares_.

The voice is there when Shiro shows up on Tuesday with a new book he thinks Keith will like but knows he doesn’t have the patience to read himself, pulling Keith onto the couch between his spread legs to rest against his chest as he opens the book to the first page—stroking fingers over Keith’s hair as he falls asleep to the soft cadence of Shiro’s voice. 

It’s there when Shiro twines their fingers as they play a card game on the sofa, his feet shoved under Keith’s ass and a smile on his face, because he doesn’t know the meaning of poker face, and Keith doesn’t even care that he’s gonna lose because Shiro’s so pretty when he smiles.

It’s there on a lazy Saturday morning long after Shiro’s gone because Keith managed to drag him to his room for a nap, and though nothing more than sleeping happened, the scent of Shiro lingers on Keith’s pillow—erotic and comforting as it sets his heart racing. 

It’s there when Keith wakes up in the morning and realizes he no longer dreads every coming day. That even on the days where he has no Shiro to look forward to, he simply looks forward to being alive.

It’s there when he falls asleep night after night—no longer dreading the loneliness of the dark but welcoming the peace and rest—because though he might not be with Shiro, he doesn’t feel so alone anymore. 

It’s there thundering against his ribcage when he opens the door week after week to see Shiro—beautiful, perfect Shiro—looking as eager as a puppy to see him. His smile is always wide, his arms open and ready for Keith.

The more time Shiro spends with him, the more like himself Keith feels in a way he never has before. The itch beneath his skin that’s always been there, and the voice reminding him that he has never belonged, is no longer there.

Instead Keith feels settled—his soul most calm when in Shiro’s presence. There’s a comfort in being with him, but even when he’s gone, there’s a steadiness in Keith that’s new. 

Realistically, Keith knows he’s not doing a good job of stopping himself from getting emotionally attached to Shiro. In fact, he’s failing miserably, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when everything about being lucky enough to know Shiro makes him so goddamn happy. Happier than he’s been in his entire fucking life.

Any worry Keith might have about the future and wanting too much from Shiro is tampered solely by the knowledge that, at the very least, Shiro is his friend. Keith’s burgeoning feelings for Shiro are something he plans to keep to himself—safe and hidden where they belong—so as not to risk losing the best thing in his life. So what if he wants to drag Shiro to his bed and never let go? So what if he wants to wake up next to Shiro and bring him breakfast in bed and fall asleep watching godawful comedy movies that aren’t actually funny? So what if he wants to bury himself in the tight heat of Shiro’s body and fuck him better than anyone else ever has? 

So what if Keith wants to lay himself across Shiro’s back and cover him in marks?

So what if Keith wants to sink his teeth into the side of Shiro’s neck as he fucks him to mate him, making sure that no one else touches him ever again?

None of it matters. What Keith wants doesn’t matter. Or at least that’s what he tells himself every morning as his feelings continue to grow and he becomes more certain that he’s in love with Shiro. 

The only person potentially getting hurt in all of this is Keith, and it’s not like he’s not used to that already. 

Keith can definitely keep ignoring his feelings for Shiro.

****

*******

Shiro is late.

It’s not even that late, really—barely twenty minutes. But Shiro is never late. Ever. It puts Keith’s protective instincts on high alert—a feeling that magnifies tenfold when he opens the door and takes one look at Shiro.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Shiro says with a smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” Keith asks, every single bone in his body dying to pull Shiro into the house and hug him—this time for Shiro’s sake and not his own.

“Nothing,” Shiro says, so obviously a lie that it makes Keith’s eyebrows furrow and his lips turn down in a frown. 

Keith tries not to take it personally. For all he knows that he and Shiro are, at the very least, friends, it doesn’t mean Keith is entitled to all of Shiro’s secrets. Not if Shiro doesn’t want to share. Despite knowing that, and despite firmly believing that all people are entitled to their privacy for any reason, it’s still hard for Keith not to take it just a little bit personally. 

It’s hard to ignore Keith’s Alpha instincts which flare to life at the sight of Shiro looking tired and obviously hiding something. It’s harder still to ignore the thought digging its claws into his chest and screaming _you haven’t made your Omega feel safe enough to confide in you_.

“Are you sure?” Keith asks. 

He doesn’t want to pry or imply Shiro is a liar, but something feels off. Something Keith just can’t ignore.

“Yeah, I just slept like shit last night and I’ve had a headache all day but I’m fine.” He smiles again, stepping over the threshold and pulling Keith into a hug. Keith lets him. It’s tighter than usual, Shiro’s fingers lingering at the back of Keith’s neck.

Keith squeezes him back. He doesn’t need reasons or answers to want to hug Shiro.

Despite his obvious exhaustion, there’s the usual bag of takeout in one hand and a movie in his other. He asks about Keith’s day while clearly avoiding talking about his own. All evening he keeps smiling at Keith, but the unsettled feeling lingers, Keith’s skin practically buzzing. 

Keith tells himself that he won’t ask again—that it’s not his place. If Shiro doesn’t want to tell Keith what’s going on, then Keith will act like the friend Shiro deserves and respect his boundaries.

Except as the night goes on, the nagging feeling that something is off sets Keith’s nerves on edge. He can’t put his finger on what, but something is most definitely off. Shiro is sweet and attentive as always, but the sense that he’s holding back lingers.

Then there’s the smell—the fucking smell. Shiro’s scent is usually Keith’s favorite thing in the entire world. It makes his mouth water and his knees weak and soothes his nerves on even the worst of days. Not today, though. Today, instead of Shiro’s musky scent, or even his _I-just-showered-clean-boy_ scent, he reeks of cologne in a way that makes Keith’s nose turn and his chest ache.

Keith’s gotten so used to Shiro’s natural scent and even the hint of citrus in the body wash Shiro favors that Keith sometimes catches himself going to the local farmers market just to buy citrus. But today he reeks of something else—something artificial and overpowering that leaves Keith in knots.

It’s not until halfway through the movie Shiro brought—a movie Keith can’t even begin to pay attention to, far too distracted by the change in Shiro’s scent— that a horrible thought occurs to Keith. What if the reason for all the cologne is that Shiro is masking the scent of another Alpha? 

Keith’s stomach turns at the idea of someone else being intimate with Shiro—bile working its way up the back of his throat at the mere idea of another Alpha marking Shiro. He’s tried his damndest day after day to remember Shiro isn’t his, but something pitiful and dark twists in his chest at the idea of Shiro with someone else. 

He knows it’s unfair of him, that he has no claim on Shiro—but Keith can only be so logical. Especially when his brain is screaming to scent and mark Shiro _right fucking now_ —to make Shiro his. It’s a primal, raw thought that takes shape in his mind and rages against his ribs, begging to be let out. 

Keith swore he would never put himself in a position to be rejected by an Omega, but he went and did it anyway because he’s a fucking idiot and he likes Shiro so much it hurts.

_Likes him_ , he thinks bitterly. No, that’s not even close to the truth of it. 

He loves him. 

Keith is fucking in love with Shiro. Every bit of him loves Shiro. He’s not just a perfect Omega, or the perfect lover, he’s the best friend Keith’s ever fucking had. 

Keith wants him.

Worse still, the Alpha in him wants Shiro too in every way, and his heart, mind, soul—and even fucking biologically too—knows that Shiro completes him in every way.

The realization should make Keith happy. After a lifetime of being sure there could never be someone who matched him so well—someone whose jagged edges fit against his own—he should be over the fucking moon to know that Shiro is his perfect mate.

Except he’s not. Because surely if Shiro felt the same, he would have said something.

“Everything alright?” Shiro asks, as the credits begin to roll. He pushes the hair off Keith’s face and cups his cheek, smiling at him in that same soft way Keith likes to pretend is only for him.

Keith exhales slowly and attempts to shake off the unease. Maybe he’s imagining things. Maybe it’s just an off day for Shiro—everyone has those. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired,” Keith lies. He hasn’t been tired in weeks. Not since he started seeing Shiro so often. He sleeps like a baby now—his insomnia is a thing of the past now that he gets regular exposure to touch and an Omega’s calming scent—Shiro’s scent. 

“I guess it is getting late,” Shiro murmurs, still holding onto the side of Keith’s face.

A thought occurs to Keith and he grabs onto it like a drowning man to a buoy.

“Hey, Shiro?”

“Yeah?”

“I know you never come by on Thursdays but, uh...could you come tomorrow.”

Shiro hesitates and the unease that had settled rises in Keith once more. Normally Shiro agrees to just about anything Keith wants. He hadn’t realized until this very moment just how used to it he’d gotten.

There’s a furrow between his thick eyebrows and a subtle tension in his jaw. There’s something he’s hiding.

“I really need an extra session,” Keith blurts, shame settling in his gut at the lie.

Shiro doesn’t question Keith about the unexpected request, just pushes a smile onto his face to mask his obvious discomfort before dropping his hand to Keith’s knee and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Of course, Keith.”

Keith smiles through his guilt.

****

*******

As much as Keith doesn’t want to ruin things—doesn’t want to need more from Shiro than Shiro is willing to give him—he can’t help but feel as if everything has already changed. He can’t help but feel like something has shifted and there will be no going back.

Keith doesn’t sleep well. It’s the worst night’s sleep he’s had since before he met Shiro. He tosses and turns all night—racked with guilt over his lie and the fear of losing Shiro. 

Things have been so perfect up until now, almost too perfect. Keith can’t help but worry that this is the beginning of the end he never wanted to admit might come. After all, it’s not like he and Shiro are dating, or anything remotely close. He’s paying Shiro to see him. Maybe Shiro has finally found another Alpha who can give him exactly what he wants and needs. Maybe he’s growing tired of Keith’s company.

By the time the sun comes up, Keith is tired of pretending there’s any chance of sleeping and gets out of bed. There are still a few hours until Shiro is set to arrive and Keith busies himself all morning—cleaning his house from top to bottom and then, when he realizes Shiro won’t be over for another hour, walking to the corner market to buy a pack of the double stuffed Oreos that Shiro likes so much.

He tries to tell himself that yesterday was a fluke—that Shiro will show up on his doorstep soon and everything will be the same as it’s always been. But when Shiro finally turns up he looks worse than the day before. His eyes are rimmed in red, his hair is a mess, and his usually perfectly pressed cotton t-shirt is rumpled.

“Are you sick?” Keith asks immediately. 

“No,” Shiro says, voice quieter than usual.

He’s obviously lying and though Keith has no idea why, he’s relieved to at least know it wasn’t another Alpha.

“You should come inside,” Keith tells him, desperate to get Shiro laying down. He looks like he might pass out. 

Shiro shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Keith asks, utterly confused.

“I just...I couldn’t do this through the agency. It wasn’t right. You deserve better.” He stops, licking his lips as his body sways. “I just needed to see you one last time.”

_Last time._

Keith’s brain stops working and his ears begin to buzz. The only thing that stops him from crying is the desperate need to understand what's going on.

“Wait, what?” Keith stutters.

He has to be hallucinating. This can’t really be happening. For all Keith had feared things might really end, deep down he’d let himself hope they wouldn’t. He’d let himself hope so fucking much.

“I quit, Keith.” He sounds exhausted, his voice shaky and his entire body trembling. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Shiro wobbles again and it’s only Keith’s quick reflexes that stop him from toppling backward down the front steps. He grabs a hold of Shiro’s forearms to steady him, shocked to find Shiro’s skin hot to the touch—he’s burning up, his skin clammy. An audible shudder ripples through Shiro as he mumbles an apology and steps out of Keith's hold.

Keith can’t worry about why Shiro’s apologizing or how his own heart is breaking. Not when Shiro is so clearly unwell.

“You need to come inside and lay down.”

Shiro bites down on his bottom lip, shaking his head. “Can’t.”

“Shiro, please,” Keith all but sobs. “Please. Let me help you.”

Shiro makes a pained noise, like a wounded animal. It pierces straight through Keith’s heart like a knife. He wants nothing more than to pull Shiro inside and wrap himself around him and never ever fucking let go. 

“You don’t understand. I betrayed you. Your trust. I wasn’t supposed to do this. This wasn’t...it wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Keith has no idea what he’s rambling about. He can barely think straight with Shiro standing there like that. 

The pain Keith feels at the idea of never seeing Shiro again takes second place to his instinctual need to take care of Shiro. Something is wrong, and Keith needs to protect him. He needs to care for his Omega.

_Not yours_ , his brain screams, and Keith has to swallow down the bile rising. 

“Shiro.”

Shiro closes his eyes, his shoulders tightening. The distress is pouring off of him in waves and Keith wants to help— _needs_ to help. Ignoring Shiro’s earlier words, Keith moves closer, reaching a hand out to brush the white hair off Shiro’s face. When Shiro doesn’t flinch at his touch, he takes another step closer, pressing the back of his hand to Shiro’s forehead.”

“Fuck, you’re burning up. We need to call a doctor or—“ but then he stops himself as the breeze shifts and sends a waft of Shiro’s scent his way. It’s not the heavily perfumed scent from the day before but _Shiro_. It’s a little different though, sweeter somehow, and tinged with something that makes the desire pool low in Keith’s belly. It’s Shiro’s scent magnified and something primal surges in Keith.

“You’re in heat.” 

"Keith."

It's not a no.

"Is this why you quit?” he pushes, turning the back of his hand so that the palm presses against Shiro’s forehead, then sliding it down to cup Shiro’s cheek. He tries not to get his hopes up at the way Shiro seems to lean into the touch. It’s probably just the heat. “Is this why you won't come inside?"

The sound Shiro makes pierces Keith's heart. It's something needy and broken, and it takes every bit of Keith's self-control not to gather Shiro into his arms. 

"Yes," Shiro whispers, dropping his head.

There's something broken in his voice and it's the only thing stopping Keith from crying. Shiro's in heat, about to be in the most vulnerable state an Omega can be in, and he doesn't want to be near Keith. So much so that he apparently quit his job and is saying goodbye.

Keith had thought he'd known sadness but it doesn't compare to this. 

The undeniable proof that he couldn't be what his Omega wants—what he _needs_ —cuts Keith to the core.

He has never been good enough for anyone. In hindsight, the idea that he thought he could be enough for Shiro is almost laughable. Shiro is good as gold and Keith is nothing.

Keith is a bad Alpha. 

"I'm sorry, Keith."

He sounds so sad, like he really is sorry. If Keith pretends hard enough he can almost imagine a world in which Shiro feels the same.

"It's okay, Shiro. You don't need to apologize." 

He tries to keep the tremor out of his voice, tries to ignore the way his heart races and the way his entire body is screaming that the person he wants most in the world is in heat and doesn’t want him.

It's actual torture not touching Shiro, not pressing him down into his bed and scenting him.  
But no matter how much Keith wants him, the idea of touching him—taking an Omega in heat when it's unwanted—turns his stomach enough to make his arousal dwindle.

"At least let me help you home," Keith says, reaching out. 

Shiro pulls his hand back and it's the worst thing Keith's ever experienced in his entire life. Something small and fragile inside of him shatters at the sight of Shiro physically recoiling from him.

"I won't take advantage of your heat, Shiro." He chokes on the words, sick at the idea of Shiro being afraid of him. He understands though, has heard horror stories about vulnerable Omegas in heat and Alphas taking advantage of their biological needs. He’s felt out of control before, but never like that. He can’t even imagine how terrifying it must be to worry that your body might ask for things your heart and mind don’t really want.

"Keith, it's not like that."

"It’s okay, Shiro. You don't need to lie. Not to me," Keith says, inhaling deeply and puffing out his chest. "Its okay if you don't want me during your heat but...but fuck, Shiro, you have to know I wouldn't ever—"

"You think I don't want you?" Shiro interrupts, eyes blown wide with surprise.

Keith can barely choke back a sob. “Well, yeah. What else am I supposed to think?”

“Oh, Keith,” Shiro whispers, lifting his hand. For one brief second Keith thinks he’s going to cup the side of Keith’s face like he’s done a million times before, but he drops his hand. “I...I want you so much.” 

The words should be the best thing Keith’s ever heard but he’s still reeling from thinking he wouldn’t ever see Shiro again and was unwanted, and is too confused to process what’s happening.

“I...but you—“ 

“Broke rule number one when I took a position with ATLAS. I vowed to uphold my level of professionalism and always put the clients' needs before my own,” Shiro says, his entire body trembling. “I knew it the day I met you. I thought I could ignore the pull I felt for you. I’d read your contract and I knew that the only thing you wanted was platonic companionship. I would’ve kept coming even if you didn’t pay me, but I wanted to respect your boundaries. I know how much you value your autonomy and independence, and I just...if I couldn’t have you as my Alpha then I wanted you as my friend. I thought I could ignore my feelings but...but I couldn’t.”

“What exactly do you feel?” Keith asks, mind reeling with the possibilities.

“I love you,” Shiro says with a level of conviction that gives Keith emotional whiplash. “I think I have since the day I met you. You just...god, Keith, you have no idea how incredible you are and I...fuck, I’m sorry. I'm so sorry.”

Keith’s too shocked to say anything. Since the first day? That was over six months ago. 

“I tried to ignore it but—” he gestures a hand at his trembling body. “I wasn’t supposed to have my heat for another six weeks but—“ he swallows, leaning heavily against the door frame. “My biology betrayed me. I could tell my brain not to want you, but not my body.” 

“Wait, I thought you were on suppressants,” Keith says, which is possibly one of the stupidest ways to respond to Shiro’s confession, but his heart hasn’t caught up with his brain.

“Yeah,” Shiro mutters with a hollow laugh. He scrubs a hand over his face and Keith wants so desperately to touch him but it’s like his brain is still two steps behind. “I was.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that you want me so much it not only broke through your suppressants but it triggered an early heat,” Keith repeats, positive he’s hallucinating now. Shiro possibly wanting him had felt like a dream. Shiro wanting him enough for that to happen is beyond even Keith’s wildest fantasies. An Omega going into early heat usually meant one thing and one thing only—compatibility with their Alpha. It was a sign of complete physical compatibility and an Omega who was also emotionally at ease. It meant Shiro didn’t just like him he loved him—he trusted Keith completely.

Keith had heard stories of it happening, but never once has he been delusional enough to imagine someone might desire Keith on such a soul-deep and primal level.

“I’m so sorry,” Shiro whimpers, mistaking Keith’s silence. He thunks his forehead against the doorframe, looking close to tears. 

“You...no.”

Shiro makes another broken sound, trying to right himself. There’s a fresh sheen of sweat on his neck, and he looks like he might be sick. Heat sick, that is. Now that Keith knows what it is, all the pieces are slotting into place. 

Shiro is an Omega without a mate—an Omega who thinks he’s been rejected. The idea is infinitely more painful than anything Keith has ever dealt with, and it makes him ache to imagine Shiro suffering in silence. 

Keith’s read enough about Omega heat cycles to have a good idea of what kind of pain Shiro must be in. Where Keith’s ruts leave him horny and unsatisfied, an Omega in heat suffers far more when they ignore their body’s needs. Physical discomfort aside, Keith has spent enough ruts to know firsthand the emotional pain too. A pain that could very easily be remedied by an Alpha. But he’s not asking for Keith’s help—he’s walking away and causing himself immeasurable pain because he thinks Keith doesn’t want him.

It’s so fucked up, Keith doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

Shiro hasn’t even made it halfway down the first step before Keith’s fisting a hand in the front of his shirt and pulling him close. Shiro’s eyes widen and Keith feels his lips turn up in a smile as he huffs out a laugh. It only makes Shiro look more confused, but Keith can’t stop the sound as it bubbles out again. He’s happy. He’s so goddamn happy.

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” he says, a bit too loudly considering the nosy old man next door has been watering his begonias near Keith’s hedge for the last twenty minutes. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t give a flying fuck who knows he’s in love with Shiro, so long as Shiro knows it. “So just so we’re clear—I love you. I am in love with you. In every way. You are the best thing to ever happen to me and I can’t lose you. And also in case it needs to be repeated, I love you.”

Shiro’s metal fingers shake as they wrap around Keith’s arm.

“You...you—“ 

“Have wanted you since the day we met.”

“But the heat...it’s making you think you want me. It’s the pheromones and—“

A calmness settles in Keith—something unlike anything he’s ever felt before. 

“It’s not,” Keith assures him. Shiro inhales sharply, his eyes tracking Keith’s progress towards him as he steps closer. Shiro’s jaw quivers just a bit as he tilts his head back, almost unconsciously displaying his neck. Keith’s confidence surges. “You’re mine, Shiro. You know it and I know it. I’m your Alpha.” 

“Oh,” Shiro whispers, all the fight going out of him. His body tips forward, but Keith’s strong enough to bear his weight easily.

“I’ve got you,” Keith soothes as Shiro’s body drops against his. “I want you.”

Shiro makes another broken off noise, burying his face in Keith’s hair.

“Keith, it hurts.” His words are garbled against Keith’s hair and his hands are gripping Keith’s hips tight enough to bruise.

“Let me help,” Keith begs, rubbing a hand up and down Shiro’s back. The shirt beneath his palm clings to Shiro’s sweat-damp skin. “Let me take care of you.”

Shiro’s scent sweetens, so rich and thick it makes Keith’s head spin. _My Omega. Mine_ his body screams, every nerve ending thrumming with satisfaction. 

There’s only so long Keith’s going to have this level of coherency. Shiro’s heat is getting worse—he can smell it. Soon Shiro will be out of it, and Keith is pretty sure he will be too. The scent of Shiro’s desire is heady and erotic.

“I want—“ Shiro tries, but it’s a broken off sentence.

“Yeah?”

Shiro inhales a shuddering breath through his nose.

“I want you.” 

“I want you too,” Keith echoes, realizing for the first time perhaps he hasn’t been the only one hurting.

All this time Shiro has been focused on what Keith wants and needs, and there’s been no space for him. But Keith is alright now. Keith doesn’t need anything. Well, nothing except for his Omega to be alright.

“What do you need?” Keith asks, rubbing his face against Shiro’s shoulder. The cotton bunches up against his nose as he works his way up, rising onto his tiptoes to get closer to Shiro’s neck.

The scent glands are swollen—protruding from the base of his neck—and Keith nudges his nose against them, nearly whimpering at the way Shiro’s entire body shudders. Shiro’s fingers dip into Keith’s hips.

“I...I need—“ but Shiro stops himself, biting back the words and swallowing audibly. He twists his fingers in Keith’s shirt. Shiro is holding back. His body’s burning up, the heat starting to take hold. Pretty soon he won’t be able to tell Keith what he wants or needs, and Keith needs to hear it before this goes further. 

“Tell me,” Keith urges, pressing a feather -light kiss to the knot of scent glands.

“Keith,” Shiro shudders, rolling his hips. There’s a firmness in his jeans that makes Keith’s own cock jump to attention. For the first time, Keith realizes how achingly hard Shiro is. 

Shiro is hard because of Keith. Fuck. 

“Tell me what you need,” he begs. “I’ll give it to you. I swear I will.”

Shiro’s fingers nearly rip Keith’s shirt in half as his body trembles.

“You. I need you,” he cries. “Alpha. My Alpha. Show me that I’m yours. Please.” 

The words send a shock wave of pleasure through Keith. It's all the verbal consent Keith needs before he's tugging Shiro into the house, kicking the door shut with his socked foot and shoving Shiro back against the door.

“Fuck, Keith,” Shiro exhales.

“Yeah” Keith breathes, rising onto his tiptoes. “I’m gonna fuck you so good.”

There are a whole host of things they should probably talk about, insecurities to be soothed and realities to discuss. But here and now only one thing matters—his Omega is in heat and needs him. 

“Keith,” Shiro whispers, his voice quieting the roaring in Keith’s ears.

After so long _wanting_ , the reality of being allowed to touch Shiro is almost too much. Granted, Keith’s been touching him for months, in intimate ways—but they were also platonic. There was always an invisible line he knew not to cross. The line has been obliterated.

This time when Keith’s hand drags down Shiro’s arm and rests at his hip, it’s with intention.

“If there’s anything you don’t want to happen now tell me, because pretty soon neither of us will be coherent enough to—“

“Anything,” Shiro blurts, angling his head down. It’s not a kiss, but his lips graze across Keith’s cheek and Keith’s heart races. “Anything, Keith. I trust you.”

It’s the highest honor for an Alpha and Keith preens, his chest flooded with warmth. Shiro is in heat—needy and vulnerable in the utmost way—and he trusts Keith. 

“You’re such a good Omega, always taking care of everyone else. But now it’s my turn to take care of you,” Keith whispers, sliding a hand around the back of Shiro’s neck and pulling him down into a bruising kiss.

Shiro keens, lips opening to Keith eagerly. 

“Bedroom,” Keith mumbles, only pulling out of the kiss long enough to say that. He tugs at the bottom of Shiro’s shirt. Shiro gets the hint, pulling back and lifting his arms so Keith can remove his t-shirt. He doesn’t make any move to head towards Keith’s room though.

“Come on,” Keith adds, taking a step backward. Shiro doesn’t follow. Instead he whines, trying to pull Keith back towards him.

“Too far away.” 

Keith is tempted to drop to his knees and make Shiro scream. He wants him so bad. The temptation to turn Shiro around and fuck him against the front door and make a mess of his freshly-cleaned house is strong. But he resists. It’s not what Shiro deserves for their first time, or his heat. He deserves a soft bed and to be worshipped, and Keith wants to give him exactly what he deserves.

“Come on, big boy,” Keith tries, slipping two fingers beneath the waistband of Shiro’s thin grey sweats and trying to pull him along. “The bedroom will be more comfortable.”

“Couch is closer,” Shiro mumbles, nuzzling into the side of Keith’s face like an overgrown puppy. “Everything hurts. Please. Just fuck me.”

Keith hesitates, turning to eye his decade-old sofa as Shiro mouths at his cheek. He wants to fuck Shiro and fuck him now, but he’s also about eighty-seven percent sure his couch won’t take the dicking down he plans to give Shiro. 

“Come on,” Keith tells him, dragging his knuckles against back and forth beneath Shiro’s waistband, watching as a wet spot blossoms at the front. “I’ll carry you.”

“Too big. You can’t,” he whines, still trying to tug off Keith’s shirt.

_You can’t_. Keith almost laughs. He’s lost count of the number of times people have said that to him, and the number of times he’s proved them wrong. 

“Fucking watch me,” Keith huffs, straightening his shoulders and puffing out his chest.

He doesn’t give Shiro any time to question him, acting quickly. Keith moves his hands from Shiro’s hips down to the back of Shiro’s thighs and gripping firmly. Shiro lets out a squeak of surprise as Keith hefts him up in one go. Without missing a beat, Shiro wraps his legs around Keith’s waist even as his mouth falls open in obvious surprise. 

Keith fucking loves proving people wrong.

Strictly speaking, Shiro is a bit heavy even for Keith. He’s built like a fucking brick house, after all. But Keith’s strong and, most importantly, stubborn. He will feel it tomorrow in his thighs and arms, but it’s worth it for the way Shiro slams their lips together and moans.

“Fuck, baby, you’re so strong.” 

The words flood through Keith’s veins. Suddenly Shiro doesn’t feel so heavy, the boost of adrenaline from Shiro’s praise giving him the strength he needs to carry Shiro across the living room, through the kitchen, and down the long hallway to his bedroom. Keith carries him all without dropping him or breaking the kiss, which is really a miracle since Keith’s pretty sure all the blood in his body is in his cock and he’s not sure he could string a coherent sentence together if he tried.

An Omega in heat is alluring to almost anyone, even a Beta—to their chosen Alpha they’re damn near irresistible. Except Keith knows this isn’t just the heat, knows this is how badly he always wants Shiro. Still, there’s no denying that the change in hormones flooding through Shiro right now are making Keith feel fucking wild with arousal. He’s dealt with achingly long ruts spent alone, but never has his dick ached as much as it does now.

Keith’s not in heat, nowhere near his own rut—but Shiro’s desperation is palpable. He kisses Keith like he can’t breathe without him, nails dragging over Keith’s scalp and down his neck as he writhes and moans in Keith’s arms. Keith slips his hands down beneath Shiro’s ass for a better grip to find a wet patch in the middle. Wet, Shiro is dripping wet—his body so achingly desperate to be filled by Keith.

It’s all Keith can do not to fucking scream. He’s so fucking turned on he feels crazy, and if the frantic sounds Shiro is making as he gasps for air deepens the kiss are anything to go by, he’s even more gone than Keith. 

By the time Keith manages to get Shiro into his bed and naked, it’s all Keith can do not to come just from _looking_ at Shiro naked. 

Shiro is fucking breathtaking—spread out across Keith’s bed like a goddamn five-course meal ready to be savored. His body is a thing of beauty—long legs stretched out across Keith’s duvet. Everything, from the delicate arch of his ankle bone to the muscled calves that lead up to thick thighs, makes Keith’s dick throb and his mouth water. His thighs are dusted in hair as pale as the hair on his head, hair which darkens as it thickens into a mass of darker curls where his balls lay nestled, continuing up into a glorious treasure trail that leads up Shiro’s flat tummy to his belly button and impossibly tiny waist. 

Keith itches to touch and see if the curls are as soft as they look.

Shiro’s cock is thick as his thighs, the length resting against his stomach and curved at the end. The cockhead is flushed pink and the tip leaks. It’s not the only place Shiro is leaking either and when he shifts his hip and drawns his knees up to expose himself, Keith can see the slick dripping out of his hole and staining the bed. He’s so wet, his chest is heaving, and his body is taut. With every inhale his chest expands, drawing attention to his dark nipples and the swell of his full pecs.

“Keith, please,” Shiro begs, eyes wide with desire

It’s the sweetest sound Keith’s ever heard. 

“I’m coming,” Keith smiles, dropping his gaze haphazardly shoves down his jeans and boxers and kicks them to the side before removing his shirt and tossing it onto the pile. He doesn’t even bother trying to take his socks off—it'll either take too much time, or require more coordination than he currently possesses. 

Finally clothed in nothing but a ridiculous pair of bright red socks, he lifts his eyes to find Shiro watching him intently. There’s a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth but beneath it there’s something darker in his gaze, something infinitely more salacious. 

“Hi,” Keith whispers, making his way onto the bed and nudging Shiro’s legs further apart so he can climb between them.

There’s a visible shudder in Shiro’s body when Keith’s fingers ghost along the inside of his thighs. Keith does it again, dragging the pads of his fingers across the delicate skin. Just as he’d suspected, the hair is soft as silk. 

“Pretty,” Keith says, his voice hushed. 

Shiro inhales a shuddering breath as his knees fall wide open and Keith is struck stupid by the sight of Shiro dripping onto his freshly washed duvet. There’s a puddle of it now, his hole fluttering as his stomach quivers. 

“Oh, fuck,” Keith bites out, salivating at the sight of it. Shiro’s so eager—so ready for him he won’t even need any prep.

Keith smooths his palms over Shiro’s knees and along the inside of Shiro’s thigh to spread them apart even wider, his own cock twitching as Shiro complies easily. His eyes are wide and trusting as Keith exposes him in the most vulnerable way.

“Fuck, you’re flexible,” Keith grunts, as Shiro puts his hands behind his knees and pulls them flush against his chest to put himself on full display.

“Keith—“ but Shiro cuts off, clenching his jaw and squeezing his eyes shut. His Adam's apple bobs and his body tenses.

Keith’s chest constricts painfully at the knowledge that Shiro’s arousal is tinged with discomfort. Keith aches to soothe it.

“Shhh, it’ll feel better soon,” Keith promises, dragging two fingers through the thick pool of slick at Shiro’s ass then bringing it up to coat his own cock in it. It’s thick and warm, and Keith nearly bites a hole in his bottom lip thinking about how wet and warm it’ll be when he finally presses inside of Shiro.

There’s no verbal response from Shiro, but Keith didn’t expect there to be. Not when Shiro’s so far gone already, so aching for release—desperate for an Alpha to soothe him. Desperate for _Keith_. 

Keith is the one Shiro needs, the one he _wants_. The thought alone makes Keith’s entire body buzz with endorphins. He’s never felt as desired as he does in this moment. Even if Shiro lied about wanting Keith—which he knows he would never do—his body's undeniable response to Keith is enough.

Shiro’s gaze is intense, his eyes full of a level of trust and affection Keith never thought he’d see directed at himself. 

“I’m gonna make you feel so good,” Keith declares, shuffling forward on his knees as he drags his hands across the swell of Shiro’s ass. Shiro moans unabashedly as Keith stops and digs his fingers into the firm flesh. He spreads the cheeks wide, exposing Shiro's entrance—the muscles that would normally be tight and furrowed already loose and fluttering. “I’m going to fuck you so good, sweetheart.”

More slick gushes out of Shiro at the words and he digs his nails into the back of his thighs hard enough to leave marks. He’s desperate for it. So desperate. 

“ _Alpha_ ,” Shiro whimpers, his mouth falls open. 

Whatever self-control Keith has been holding onto snaps as he surges forward, his right hand dropping down to hold his dick and line it up at Shiro’s entrance. Shiro’s mouth falls open on a high whine as the tip of the cockhead nudges against the rim.

“Mine,” Keith tells him as he presses forward. There’s almost no resistance as Keith’s cock slides past the ring of muscle—Shiro’s heat provides ample preparation. He goes further until he’s sheathed inside Shiro’s slick warmth—his hips pressed snug up against Shiro’s ass. 

Keith’s had sex before, back when he thought any touch was better than none. Lonely, unsatisfying sex with nameless faces that left him sure there was nothing special about fucking another person.

Fucking Shiro is a goddamn revelation. It feels good—so good he nearly bites a hole in his tongue. 

“More,” Shiro chokes out, gasping for breath.

“Shhh,” Keith soothes, stroking his hands across Shiro’s stomach and up towards his chest. Beneath his palm Shiro’s heart races erratically—the beat of his heart almost impossibly fast. Shiro slams his feet down into the bed and whimpers. “Relax,” Keith soothes again, but to no avail.

Shiro shakes his head from side to side as if to say he can’t. His eyes are glazed and he looks completely out of it now, his hands fisting in the duvet as he wiggles his hips and tries to take Keith even deeper.

“I’m in as deep as I can—oh, fuck,” Keith grunts as Shiro unexpectedly switches their positions, flipping Keith down onto his back so that Shiro is straddling Keith’s waist. 

“Oh, god, that feels good,” Shiro moans, his eyes falling shut. “Good. Oh god.”

Keith grunts out something unintelligible, the sight of Shiro lifting himself up and then slamming back down on Keith’s cock short circuiting his brain. Shiro’s weight is heavy and comforting, crushing Keith into the mattress in the most delightful way. With every rise and fall, Shiro’s ass slaps against Keith’s hips. He does it again and again, picking up the pace and fucking himself on Keith’s dick hard enough the bed slams againast the wall.

“Fuck,” is the most Keith can manage—all his nerve endings lit up like a live wire as Shiro rides him. 

“Good. You feel so good,” Shiro mumbles—definitely talking to himself—and clearly lost in a haze of pleasure. Keith’s toes curl, running his hands up and down Shiro’s thighs he moves, feeling the corded muscles tense beneath his fingertips. Shiro is so fucking strong.

Keith inhales sharply, the scent of sex and arousal making him feel almost high. He can’t even begin to imagine how Shiro feels right now, can’t even form a coherent thought.

Keith’s heard all about Omegas in heat, but always assumed the tales were an exaggeration. It sounded like fodder for the porn industry which was driven largely by Alpha desires since they were the primary demographic. He’d assumed the books and porn he’d seen were a bit of imaginative eroticism meant to arouse him, which they did. It had never occurred to him the reason Alphas went so wild for that kinda porn was because it was _real_. 

Nothing he’s ever seen comes close to describing the level of euphoria and arousal Keith is experiencing as Shiro writhes above him.

He can’t even begin to imagine how Shiro feels. 

“Look at you,” Keith grunts out, resting his hand over Shiro’s chest and feeling the erratic thud of it beneath his fingertips. “So pretty.”

Shiro makes a punched out sound. If there’s something he was trying to say, it's unintelligible to Keith. It’s clear though that he likes the praise, if the way a bit of precome leaks out of his dick and his heart races.

“So good for me. Such a good Omega.”

Shiro takes a shuddering breath, his entire body trembling. He looks like he can barely breathe, his heart rate close to dangers out and his skin burning up. 

“So good,” Keith says again, rocking his hips up to meet Shiro’s every thrust. 

It turns out to be the right thing to say because Shiro makes another guttural, pleased sound as he throws his head back, exposing the long line of his neck. The scent glands there are still a little swollen, protruding enticingly from the side of his neck. It’s too hard for Keith to reach them though, so he settles for grabbing Shiro’s wrist to seek out the ones there. Beneath his lips the glands are plump, the thrum of Shiro’s pulse fluttering alongside them. He drags his tongue across the pulse point and then the glands, wrapping his lips around them and sucking.

The sound Shiro makes is nothing short of primal—half moan and half scream. It’s a sound of unbridled pleasure that Keith knows he won’t ever forget.

“Mine,” Keith murmurs against Shiro’s wrist. He makes sure his voice is loud enough that he can be sure Shiro hears it over the sound of their ragged breathing and their skin slapping together as Shiro continues to fuck himself senseless on Keith’s dick.

He brings Shiro’s wrist to his mouth and noses against it before latching on and sucking hard. 

The sound it tears from Shiro’s throat is nothing short of a scream as he tips forward and drops down to brace his other hand beside Keith’s head—his hips moving in slower thrusts as he chokes on air. Warm puffs of it hit Keith’s forehead.

Keith drops Shiro’s wrist, taking advantage of this new position to lift his mouth to the swollen glands at the side of Shiro’s neck.

“Mine,” he repeats, dragging his tongue over the swollen area.

Shiro inhales sharply through his nose, holding his breath. He’s so far out of it now, clenching his hands into the sheets as a silent sob falls from his lips.

“My Omega. Mine. My good Omega,” Keith chants.

Shiro chokes out a sob, burying his face into Keith’s neck. His breath is hot and heavy as he whines _my Alpa_ in a broken, raw voice.

Keith’s chest flutters, something inside of him roaring to life.

Shiro is his. 

Keith is a good Alpha. 

“That’s it, good boy,” Keith praises, smoothing a hand up the curve of Shiro’s back as he continues to rock his hips. “So good. I’ve got you now. Let go.”

Shiro does—fuck he does. He moans and writhes as he rocks his hips back until he’s coming, his release coating Keith’s stomach in thick stripes of white as slick drips down his thighs, leaving Keith a glorious ruined mess.

Covered in the release of his Omega, bathed in his scent, Keith is undone. Shiro whines against the side of his neck, riding out his orgasm as Keith joins him. 

They stay like that for several minutes, Keith’s hips twitching as he continues to thrust up until every drop of come has been milked from his body. Once Keith stops moving his hips, Shiro collapses on top of Keith—crushing him beneath his solid weight as he pants into Keith’s neck.

It’s a comforting weight. Keith doesn’t recall ever feeling so fucking good, physically and emotionally. Every inch of him is spent, and there’s a bone-deep sense of pleasure coursing through him. 

“Good boy,” Keith murmurs as Shiro continues to tremble. He runs his fingertips up and down the line of Shiro’s spine. It’s long minutes before Shiro stops trembling, longer still before he lifts his face to gaze down at Keith. 

When he does, it knocks the air from Keith’s lungs. His face is blotchy, his hair mussed up and he looks more relaxed than Keith can ever recall seeing him. The knowledge that _he_ did that makes Keith’s heart beat erratically.

“Hi,” Shiro whispers, somehow managing to look well-fucked and shy at the same time. It’s fucking adorable.

“How are you feeling?” Keith asks. “Be honest.” 

A smile tugs at the corner of Shiro’s mouth. “Thirsty, still really horny even though I’m too exhausted to move. The crazed feeling has faded though, for now. It’ll come back...soon.”

The smile drops, his lips thinning. Keith reaches up to smooth his finger across Shiro’s mouth which is far too pretty to be frowning.

“I’ll still be here.” 

“Yeah?” Shiro whispers, as if he doesn’t know just how much Keith loves him. 

Keith’s never had a heat, but he knows all too well the fear of needing someone else more than they need you.

“Yes,” Keith promises. 

“How long?” Shiro asks, his eyes wide as he drags metal fingers up to cup Keith’s cheek.

Keith turns his head, kissing the inside of his palm.

“For as long as you want me,” he answers. Maybe it’s too honest, but it’s the truth. Shiro deserves the truth. He deserves everything.

“Oh,” Shiro breathes, then his smile returns—something soft and almost fragile. Keith feels the tendril of hope in his chest he’s been cradling privately blossom. Maybe not too much then. “What if I asked for forever?”

“Then I’d give you forever,” Keith whispers. _I’d give you everything_ he thinks. Fucking everything.

“Forever sounds nice,” Shiro says, dropping his face down to press a kiss to Keith’s lips. It’s chaste and sweet and makes Keith’s toes curl.

Shiro’s heat will flare again soon, and Keith’s ready for that—ready to take care of what is his. For now though, he relishes in the slow, lazy slide of Shiro’s lips against his own. It’s a kiss with no purpose, a kiss full of hope. Shiro’s scent is sweet—contentment and pleasure rolling off of him in waves. It soothes the roaring in Keith’s chest.

“I love you.” He whispers the words against Shiro’s lips, as if he can imprint them on Shiro’s soul. 

There’s a soft intake of breath before Shiro whispers, “I love you too.”

It’s everything Keith’s ever wanted to hear.

Shiro is his, and Keith is a good fucking Alpha.

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream about Sheith with me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/goldentruth813)


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